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He hated that damned broad. Really well and truly hated her. He hated how she'd fucked him over, how she'd used him, how she'd broken his heart, how she'd beat him in a fixed trial, how she'd disappeared from his life, and most of all, Arnold Philbin hated the way Annette was always right. She'd always taken issue with his dedication to his job. She just couldn't understand. He owed Swan everything. He'd been a nobody before he'd been cherry picked as a talent scout, and he's always understood what all that entailed. That he was only living the high life as long as he kept himself useful. But Annette never could stand it. She'd told him when she left that she couldn't stand being the other woman in his and Swan's relationship. Of course, he'd hit the roof at that. Told her how stupid she was for thinking he could possibly swing that way. How ungrateful she was for all they'd done for her. He might as well have been screaming at a brick wall, for all she'd heard him.
But that stupid, ungrateful bitch was right. She was always right. He'd realized it somewhere in all this Paradise mess, watching Swan get worked up over every little detail, worrying his pretty blonde head over everything. It wasn't the first time he'd looked on him and felt warm all over, but it was the first time since Annette had made such a point of it. And now he knows. And fuck, if he doesn't hate every demeaning second of it. Every time he catches himself staring at the back of Swan's tailored slacks, every time he flashes that crooked grin and orders him around, every second he spends getting sweaty just thinking about how close they sit fills him with hot shame.
He's not gay. This doesn't make him gay. Swan's. Well he's not a girl, but he's not not a girl. He's built like one. Philbin's seen enough of him over the years to know that. Know what he's missing, and what he's packing. They've shared enough groupies over the years to not really have any secrets in that regard. Liking Swan doesn't make him gay. But...it's way closer to gay than he'd like to be. Because he knows Swan. He's starting to think he's the only person who knows Swan. And Arnold knows that pussy or not, Swan is no broad.
He'd known this thing would go south from the minute it had gotten started, but it wasn't his job to say no to Swan. In fact, these days he's starting to wonder if he even could say no. Something seizes him when Swan tosses his hair over his shoulder and blows cigar smoke at him before making a request, and he finds himself blindly going along with whatever it is anyway. That's how he's ended up here, in the back of the Bentley, staring blankly out of the window while a drunk Swan swallows a white tablet from an unlabeled pill bottle, washing it down with one of the miniature bottles he keeps in the back. Tequila, this time. We're not only mixing pills and alcohol, now we're mixing liquors. Jesus he's taking this badly.
"Hey. Cool it." He scolds, reaching out a hand for the now empty miniature. "You're gonna make yourself sick."
"What does it matter?" Swan slurs, pressing the bottle into Philbin's hand and leaning miserably against the window. "It's all over. Everything I've worked for, everything I wanted, it's all gone to waste."
"Don't you think you're being a little dramatic?" He scoffs. "Everyone loved the end of the cantata. It was a massive box office success. Stop whining."
"It wasn't perfect." Swan growls, hitting him squarely in the shoulder. He certainly hits like a girl. "Nothing went to plan. It was a disaster. And all because you couldn't get rid of that stupid composer-"
"Woah, hey! Don't put this on me! I saved your ass tonight! While you were busy doing whatever with that freak you signed on, I was the one improvising an ending for your show! It's not my fault he's some kind of human tank, and I wasn't the one who pissed him off, neither!"
"I just. I needed this, Philbin."
There's a tone of desperation in his voice that makes his heart ache. Makes him want to reach across and put that overtoned platinum blonde head right into his palm and pull him against his chest. God, it's pathetic.
"...Do you want to go home?"
"...Yes."
A few words shouted at the driver and they're off. The worst part is that all he can think about is how easy it would be. He knows it makes him a terrible person, but honestly, this wasn't even the top of the list of reasons he's going to hell. Swan's wasted. Completely, totally, can't-sit-up-straight wasted. It would be so easy. He probably wouldn't even remember it in the morning. He could satisfy his curiosity- get this damned thing out of his system- and no one need know. Fuck it. The car slows to a stop, and Philbin places a hand on Swan's knee, gently pulling his thighs apart. Pulling him closer.
Swan picks his head up. Looks sideways at him from beneath those tinted glasses, pupils blown, tracking from Philbin's hand to his face. He's trying to get a read on him, and Arnold isn't going to give him the satisfaction. Mostly because he's worried if he meets those cold, calculating eyes, he'll break completely. He'll lose any of the nerve he'd just found. As if testing a theory, Swan stretches. Sits up straight from his slump against the car door. Pulls a cigarillo from his pocket. Presses it between his lips. Cants his face up, the slightest grin playing on his lips.
"Gimme a light, would you?"
And Jesus wept, how could he refuse? Pulling a lighter from his coat pocket, Arnold grabs him by the chin and tilts his face toward him. Man, he is pretty. Achingly so. The kind of pretty that seems untouchable. The kind with teeth and claws. He lights the lighter, presses the flame to the end of the cigarillo, and watches Swan's throat as he inhales. It's a power play. He understands that. Everything with Swan is a power play. An unspoken dare. One he's rising to without question like the embarrassingly loyal son of a bitch he is. Swan blows a steady stream of smoke in his face, disgusting and assertive and challenging. Testing the waters. Man, he had to be out of it. Well. Now or never.
Arnold takes the lit cigarillo from his lips and replaces it with his mouth, kissing him roughly. Swan doesn't kiss him back. Makes no move to pull him in. But he doesn't stop him, either. He lets Philbin's free hand explore his body, grip his waist, play with the ends of his hair, and only grins against his mouth in response. It's just a little bit creepy. Suddenly confronted with the reality that he is probably making a mistake. He pulls away, hand still holding Swan firmly by the waist. By all means, he should have the upper hand for once. Why did he feel like he was backed into a corner?
"Why, Philbin, are you trying to take advantage of me?" He's grinning stupidly as he says it, looking up at him like the cat that got the canary. Like it was a joke. Like it was funny.
"Yeah, and you're being a real bitch about it." He sighs, sitting back against the car seat and handing the man his smoke back.
"Oh, I'm sorry." He apologizes hollowly. He never ever apologizes. Except for when he's playing some kind of game. Christ, why did Philbin have to like the bitchy ones? The ones that liked mind games? The ones who reminded him of all the pretty blonde teenage girls who made his adolescence hell. "Why don't we get out of the driveway and you can try again? I'll do my best to be a better victim for you."
He descends into a fit of laughter, and Arnold feels like crawling into a hole. He's making fun of him. Of course he's making fun of him. That's what pretty things like Swan do to big fat oafs like him. And the worst part is that he's stuck with him. He can't hit him, he can't run, he can't hide, this is his employer. The man he owes everything to. And he's no Annette. He doesn't bite the hand that feeds. Swan's fingers grip his lapel, tugging him weakly out of the car with him, and he has no choice but to follow.
Stumbling through the door, Swan presses his back to the wall, pulling Philbin on top of him. He freezes as ringed fingers rake across his chest, musical, drunken laughter filling his ears. Seriously, he can't read this guy, and it scares him. With girls it's easy. With the groupies, it's even easier. You touch a little, tease a little, and some frilly thing whimpers and screams into a pillow while you do it. Then it's onto the next one. Swan is...frightening. Unpredictable. Wild. Even when he's too wasted to remember how to undo the buttons of Philbin's shirt. He has no idea what angle he's working, but suddenly he feels exposed. Put on display. Like he's the butt of some joke only Swan knows about. Arnold grabs him by the wrist, pushing him back into the wall and putting some distance between them.
"Is this how you treat my groupies? No wonder they all hate you." Swan tuts. "Poor Annette."
"Don't talk about her." His grip tightens.
"Why?" Swan grins. "You still love her, do you?"
"No. She pisses me the fuck off."
"Actually. Forget why, I don't care about why." He stammers drunkenly. "What I really want to know is how you plan on stopping me from talking about her, Philbin."
Fuck it. If he wanted to be an asshole just to get a rise out of him, he'd give him what he wanted. He always gives Swan exactly what he wants. Not bothering to mask his anger in the slightest, he wraps his arms around Swan's waist, hoisting the man onto his shoulders and making his way to one of the various bedrooms in this stupid place.
"Oh!" Swan exclaims, going passively limp with uproarious laughter. "Why, this is just swell. Am I supposed to struggle, Philbin? Like you're some kind of caveman?"
"Just shut up, would you?" He growls, turning a doorknob and kicking the door open.
"No. I don't want to." Whatever he was going to follow that simple statement with dissolves into a gasp as Arnold throws him senselessly to the mattress, watching the whole frame shake with the force of it.
"Ugh..." Swan groans, hands flying to his temples "You're a big brute, I get it. You can't fling me around like that, though. The world is spinning fast enough as it is. I'll puke."
"You're fine." Philbin scoffs unsympathetically, watching Swan roll onto his side as he unbuckles his belt. "You didn't need to slow down, remember? You can handle it, and I'm being some nagging dead weight for contradicting you. You had a bad night. Do you need another upper? Want to chase it with more booze?"
Swan doesn't have a cheeky response loaded for him. His eyes are closed behind those tinted glasses he insists upon, his face looking just a little pale. He might be sick after all. But Arnold wasn't going to let that slow him down any. He'd be the one to clean up after him regardless, might as well enjoy the moment. Losing his jeans somewhere on the blue shag carpet, he crawls onto the satin sheets, seizing Swan by the wrists and pinning him to the mattress.
It's funny- not "haha-funny", but "strange-funny"- he'd never actually imagined getting this far. Never allowed himself to. His mind always balked at this point, knowing there was some sort of line that once he crossed, he'd never be able to go back from. But really, when would he have another chance like this, after all that's happened this week? When would he ever have Swan underneath him, too drunk and too high to stop him from doing anything he wanted to him? He had to go through with...well with something. But he couldn't even really think of what that would be. What did he even want, if he really could have everything he's ever wanted?
Unfocused eyes look up at him over the top of tinted lenses, grimace turning to another mocking grin, and something in him breaks like a flood gate. Before he can crack off another snide remark, Arnold crushes his lips against Swan's, tightening his grip till he can feel the bones beneath his skin. His reaction time is slow. Of course it is. He's barely conscious. But the grin widens ever so slightly before Swan pushes up to meet him, opening for him like a dare. Everything is a game to him, the stupid asshole, and Philbin has no way to know who's winning. He tastes like tobacco and tequila and the lost memory of something strong and citrusy. Old fashioned, probably. Two cocktail cherries. The expensive kind. He'd made enough for him to know that much. He knows he's going to have to sacrifice his upper hand, but like the venomous snake he'd accidentally caught in his favorite trap as a boy, he wasn't just going to let go either. At least Swan couldn't send him to the hospital in the state he's in. Arnold adjusts his grip, puts both his dainty hands in one closed fist, keeping them pressed firmly to the pillow above his head. The other hand he uses to do what Swan hadn't enough coordination for. Slowly, with the care of someone who'd have to replace the garment if anything happened to it, he unbuttons his vest. His shirt. Pushes rich, white linen and satin apart until his hand meets hot bare skin.
A gasp. A chuckle. A moan. It changes so fast, so muffled by Philbin's lips that it's hard to say what sort of noise Swan makes at the feeling of his touch, but it's pleasing to the ear. Light. Flippant. Airy. He knows, now, exactly how he wants him. Exactly what he wants to do to make all that mocking laughter disappear. Arnold kisses down his neck, across his chest, nervous like a teenager suddenly. Aware again of how the man under him is his employer. How he was going to absolutely be fired for this. How the life he'd built for himself was about to crumble around him for a quick fuck. Which is exactly why it couldn't be a quick fuck. He had to take his time. Make sure he made the most of every second, because he'd never have another chance for this. He has to make it worth destroying his life for. He nips at Swan's collarbones, carefully leaving faint marks where he knows no one will see, tucked safely beneath lace and silk and all the frilly, pretty things Swan liked so much. Funny how even now he cares about Swan's image like that. How even knowing that when this is over Swan will throw him over for some less queer go-fer, he can't let him walk out of this bedroom with a hickey on his neck like an idiot. He's pathetic. Annette was right about that, too. Fuck her, she was right about everything.
Reluctantly he lets go of Swan's hands to undo his belt, pushing the leather through the brass of the buckle much slower than he'd done for his own. Stripping him still feels wrong somehow. He'd dressed him so often that dragging his pants down his legs feels incorrect. Above him, Swan has all but melted into the mattress, hands still limp above his head as if he hadn't even noticed that Arnold wasn't holding them there anymore. He tosses all the clothes he's just removed over his shoulder, thinking distantly about how they'll wrinkle and he'll have to have them cleaned before he remembers that he'll be fired for this and that will be someone else's job. The moment of irritation fades to something eerily like heartbreak, and he shakes his head as if to physically clear the thought away. Cross that bridge when you get to it. Burn this one now.
"Philbin!"
Oh there was no mistaking that. No mockery. No smug attitude. Nothing but pleasure as he situated his face between Swan's plush thighs, closing his lips around his clit. He's watched so many faceless bitches bury their noses against Swan's crotch never once thinking he'd have anything to learn from it, but in this moment he's glad for having been so distractible, more focused on the tongue circling his boss than on the tight wet cunt wrapped around him. Even now he finds himself ignoring the press of his own growing erection for the way Swan throbs against him, rolling his hips up into Arnold's mouth. The way his hands twist in the sheets and his voice pitches up ever so slightly, whispy and desperate in its keening of his last name, over and over again. Arnold's never heard anyone say his name with such urgency before. Such eager desperation.
Arnold focuses intently on the feeling of the thick flesh throbbing hotly against his tongue. He was so much bigger, so much hotter, so much harder than any girl he'd done this to. It made it blessedly easier. He can easily focus on running his tongue across the length of him, feeling him pulse and tremble against him. With girls it's so much harder. So much more guesswork. It wasn't worth the trouble. But Swan makes it nice and easy for him. He's thick, he's unmistakable, and he's so deliciously responsive. Every swipe of his tongue earns him a gasp, a moan, a "yes, don't move, right there!" all slurred together in an inebriated mess. Hands make his way to his hair, clawing insistently at his scalp, thighs pressing at his ears, knees tightening around his neck. It's messy. It's dizzying. It's so much more than he could've imagined, if indeed he'd ever dared to. A guttural groan fills his ears- one he's heard time and time again- and Swan twitches hard against him.
He should slow down, probably. Let him have some sort of break. But when else is he going to get an opportunity to put his tongue all the way inside his boss? Certainly not after this. The thighs around his head begin to tremble, the hips beneath him writhing as he drinks his fill, trying to burn the memory of the taste of him into his mind so that when this all goes away, he might still have something to cling to. He wraps his arms around Swan's thighs, dragging him closer even as he tries to wiggle away, overcome with over stimulation. Arnold traces his tongue back up through the path he'd dragged it down, swirling it around the man's swollen clit, drawing a sound close to a sob from his lips. It's nearly angelic.
Too bad he really can't wait anymore. He'd been half hard since he'd thrown Swan over his shoulder, but now he's absolutely aching, embarrassingly close to painting the front of his shorts without even getting his dick wet. He drops Swan's legs carelessly from his shoulders, pulling himself out of his shirt and boxers like they were on fire. Swan whines at his absence, pressing a hand to his forehead.
"Oh you absolute bastard." He hissed. "I was so close-"
"Shut up, will ya?" Philbin sighed, dragging Swan down the bed towards him, watching all that pretty blonde hair fan out against the mattress beneath him. God, he's always been way too pretty. "You've gotten yours, now I get mine."
"You brute." Swan admonishes him with a grin. His pupils are still dilated wide behind those crooked glasses, smile unwavering. "You awful, hulking, selfish thing."
"Selfish?" He chuckles incredulously. "I press your shirts, I keep the paps away from you, I book your talent, I run your auditions, I save your ass when you can't be bothered to show up to your own damn show, and I'm selfish? Oh, I'll show you selfish, you son of a bitch."
Arnold pushes into him not quickly or violently, but gradually, savoring every single moment of the slide from the hitch in Swan's breath to the wiggle of his hips as he urged him to go faster. And he'd cave, of course. But in a minute. After he'd had enough of watching Swan's face as he takes every inch of him, knowing that this might be the last time he gets to watch those lips part ever so gently as he's filled. It's nice to be the cause of that unexpectedly soft expression for once instead of just watching it happen from across the room. He catches Swan's still parted lips in a kiss, sloppy and desperate and full of a yearning he's only just now begun to acknowledge the depth of. It's amazing to finally be the one to have Swan pressed beneath him. To feel the rise and fall of his chest, the baby soft skin of his thighs around his waist, the twitching of his tight, wet cunt around him. It was worth it. Whatever would happen to him come tomorrow, whatever lines he's crossed, whatever he might lose, it was worth it for just a moment of this. Man, he was pathetic, wasn't he? What kind of a man throws away the sort of life he's got just for a bit of pussy? For a moment of being inside some sweet young thing? He clutches Swan tighter, fingers digging into his hips, tongue shoved messily to the back of his throat, and thrusts himself deeper, groaning at the way his employer clenches around him in response.
He knows Swan's stoned out of his mind, but if he'd had any doubt about how far gone he was, it melts away in the moment his arms wrap around Arnold's shoulders, back arching up off the mattress to press them even closer together. It's almost more than he can take. He pulls Swan into his lap as he drives himself into him, breaking the kiss to press his forehead to his shoulder. It's more than a quick fuck, that's for damn sure. He can't risk his career- his life- for something he could have with any piece of ass. As much as it pained him to admit, Swan's not just some piece of ass to him. He felt so stupid to think that of all people, Annette was the one to point it out. That she'd known even before he had. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair. But it's the truth. Being balls deep in that vapid, self-centered, chain-smoking, mean old bitch is the closest to heaven he thinks he'll ever get.
Harder. Faster. Deeper. More. Anything to stay right here, in this moment, with Swan all around him. Pulling him in, clawing at his back, whining in his ear, pressing up into his chest, the smell of his cologne and the product in his hair filling Arnold's lungs, grounding him. Making it real. He's not ready for the building of pressure in him when Swan squeezes hard around his cock and wraps his legs around his waist. He's not ready for this to come to an end, because when it does, so does everything else. His nails dig into Swan's hips, eyes squeezing shut stubbornly against tears. He's not going to cry like some sissy. He's not going to break. He's going to call the shots for once. Keep control. Do it his way. Thrust into him as gentle or as forceful as he wants, be as careless or as careful as he wants. In one way or another, he has always belonged to Swan, but for as long as he could draw this out, Swan was his.
At last and too soon all at once, he cums with a soft grunt, balls deep and grinding deeper. Arnold stills, panting with effort, forcing himself to open his eyes as he pushes himself back up on all fours. Crouched above him, he can truly admire his handiwork. Blonde hair fanned out on the sheets, a faint sheen of sweat across his brow, petal pink blush painted across his face, running down to his chest, peeking out from under the crisp white linen of his open shirt, blue eyes hazy and lost, looking not really at him, but past him. Through him. Arnold reaches a hand out and cups his face, bringing him in for a kiss before he can think better of it. Swan is so soft against him, so slow and so pliant that it makes his heart ache again. He pulls out as he pulls away, gasping softly at the feeling. He probably shouldn't have done that. Should have thought to grab a rubber, at the very least. If Swan was sober, he'd kill him for this. Then again, if Swan was sober, he'd never have gotten him in this position to begin with.
"...Lemme uh. Lemme get you a washcloth." He feels himself say.
It's like he's moving through a dream- or maybe a nightmare- the reality of the situation creeping in steadily behind him, matching him pace for pace as he moves to the ensuite bathroom. Guilt. Fear. Regret. Longing. It all threatens to overwhelm him as he runs the tap, waiting for the water to get warm. He can't bring himself to make eye contact with his reflection, too afraid of what he might see there. Too afraid he might look again like some scared, heartbroken, angry kid clutching the desperate pieces of his lonely heart. When he returns, Swan has already fallen asleep, rolled over onto his front and dangling an arm and one foot off the edge of the mattress like he'd just fallen there from a height. It'd be funny, almost, if it wasn't just more evidence of how far gone he was. Man, he'd really made a mess of things this time.
With gentle hands, Philbin works the rest of his clothing off of him, rolling him back onto his back. He wipes the mess from between his legs, already hearing him cursing about it tomorrow. He'd have so much to say tomorrow. So much to scream at him. To sneer. To mock. But for now, his face was slack, his muscles limp, his chest rising and falling softly. Philbin gently removes his glasses from where they sit askew on his face, folding the arms and placing them on the bedside table beside the ashtray. He wrestles the duvet out from under him, then the top sheet, then he pulls them both over his body, kissing his forehead as he did so. It feels like "goodbye" and "I'm sorry" all at once. He picks his clothes up off of the floor, slipping back into his boxers as he made his way to the bedroom door. He freezes in the doorframe, looking back over his shoulder. All that's visible of his boss is a messy crown of platinum blonde hair peeking out from under the duvet, and the very sight fills him with longing all over again. Since when did he pine like this?
....Fuck it all.
He drops his clothes to the floor, making his way back to the bed. Arnold shamefully peels back the duvet and slips under it, stretching out beside Swan's sleeping form. If this was the only night he'd get, he might as well take everything. Break every boundary. Blow it all apart. It doesn't take him very long to drift off into a heavy sleep, arm locked around Swan's waist, face buried against his shoulders.
"Philbin!"
He's startled awake some hours later by the sound of Swan shouting for him, face buried in the pillows and yet, volume no less deafening for how his voice was muffled. Blindly he reaches out and puts a hand between his shoulders, like snoozing an alarm clock.
"M'right here." He murmurs sleepily. "What d'ya need?"
"Aspirin." He groans, eyes squeezed shut, brows knit together. "Now."
That makes sense. As consciousness began to seep back into the tissue of his brain, so too did memories of last night. Of what led to him slipping out of bed with Swan to stumble to the cabinet for a bottle of aspirin tablets to fight off what has to be a horrendous hangover. He returns with a glass of water and the requested painkillers, pressing the pills into Swan's outstretched hand and setting the glass down on the nightstand. Arnold reaches for his shirt where it lays on the floor as Swan drags himself up to a sitting position with a groan, feeling all the shame and horror wash over him all at once. Maybe there's still a chance he can get out of here before he puts it all together. Then at least he doesn't have to make eye contact with him.
"....This isn't my bedroom." Swan remarks flatly from behind him, one eye cracked.
"No. Uh. Didn't make it to your bedroom." He mutters, pulling clothes on as fast as he can.
"Oh."
His tone is passive. Matter-of-fact. Observational. It doesn't betray any sort of emotion as he trades the glass of water and the pill bottle for his glasses, pulling back the sheets. Even if he hadn't noticed Philbin's nudity, Swan had certainly noticed his own at this point, furrowing his brows in confusion.
"...Did we fuck?" He asks plainly, eyes focusing on a half-dressed Philbin as he pulls on his jeans.
"Uh...Yeah." He says. Short. Clipped.
"Okay." He nods, closing his eyes again. "...And the cantata?"
"A massive box office success."
Swan winced, head laying back against the headboard, rubbing at his temples as if to soothe his head. Philbin has no idea where his shoes ended up. He barely remembers kicking them off. Did he need shoes to flee the crime scene?
"So that happened, too." He sighed heavily. "And Phoenix? Where did she end up?"
"I dunno. Her apartment, probably? She left after us. Too busy takin' pictures and signin' autographs."
"Not here?"
"No, not here."
He spots his shoes, finally. They've ended up under the bed, where he can't get them unless he gets back within 5 feet of Swan. Can he really risk getting that close again? A moment of tense silence passes between them as Philbin looks between the door and his shoes, debating making a run for it while Swan is still resting against the headboard with his eyes closed, either thinking or in pain, it was impossible to tell.
"So, Arnold-" He can't recall a single other time that Swan has used his first name in all the years he's known him, and it stops him in his tracks. "How long have you been in love with me?"
"Who said anything about love?" He blurts defensively, feeling something twist in him like a knife.
"Oh please." He grins, looking at him from under his eyelashes, as if still avoiding the meager light in the room streaming in from behind heavy curtains. "When's the last time you gave anyone head?"
"I thought you didn't remember last night."
"It's coming back to me."
He's so uncaring, so flippant in his tone that Philbin is almost certain he's being mocked again. There's so much amusement, so much satisfaction in that gentle little smile. So much malice in his dimples. So much cold calculation in those heavily lidded eyes. He's reminded again of that rattlesnake from his childhood. The one that had him laid up in bed for three months. He swallows thickly. How long would this lay him out flat?
"You still haven't answered my question."
"I don't know." He says helplessly. "A while, I guess. Longer than I've known about it, I think."
"I see." He nods, focusing his gaze on the ceiling, the smile fading from his face, replaced with something more thoughtful.
"...I uh. I s'ppose this means I'm out of a job, huh?" Philbin chuckles hollowly, wiping at the sweat that's begun to bead upon the back of his neck.
"No, of course not. Don't be stupid." Swan corrects him with a scowl and a dismissive wave of his hand. "Blind, unwavering, dim-witted loyalty is hard to come by."
"Gee, thanks. You sure know how to make a guy feel special." Philbin scoffs sarcastically.
"You know what I mean."
And he does. Of course he does. Swan doesn't dispense compliments. He isn't warm. He isn't approachable. He can put on a front under the right circumstances, but deep down inside, he's really quite horrible. So, he's not out of a job. That's something. But there was a change in the air between them. He could feel it like a jacket draped around his shoulders, heavy and unfamiliar. It felt like leverage. Like he'd just given over the key to breaking him to someone he knew was unafraid of using it. He clenched and unclenched his fists at his sides, digging his nails into the flesh of his palm.
"It's funny." Swan says absently, still looking up at the ceiling with a faraway expression.
"What's 'Funny' about it?!" Philbin barks defensively. Maybe he didn't need his shoes.
"Usually, people either love me, or they know me. But here you are." He tilts his chin down, finally making eye contact with him. There's an honesty to his gaze that he doesn't think he's ever seen before. "You know me better than anyone in this world, I think, and yet, somehow, you still love me. It's funny."
It's a statement that knocks him flat on his ass. Makes his breath hitch, Squeezes around his heart like a noose. He runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head incredulously.
"Yeah." He smiles. "Yeah, I guess you're right. That is pretty funny."
"Arnold?"
There it was again. His first name through those pretty, plush, kissable lips. It feels like a sucker punch every time. Makes him feel like he's about to throw up. He could get used to it, though. Swan's gotten him accustomed to worse things, certainly. He watches as Swan pulls open the drawer of the nightstand. Inside it is a blue glass ashtray, a carton of cigarillos, a notebook, and a stack of condoms. Had those been there the whole time? Fuck. Swan places the ashtray on the nightstand beside the aspirin bottle, and a cigarillo between his lips.
"What d'ya need, Swan?" He responds almost automatically.
Swan grins at him, eyes sparkling with something that might've been malice, or satisfaction, or something he dare not think about. There's a challenge in his grin again. Or maybe, an invitation. Arnold can't bring himself to think about its implications.
"Gimme a light, would you?"