Love, Is.
The loft was silent when Arthur came home after church. It had been a long service, and one of the last standing places to worship was two trains and an hour away - he'd taken the earlier train, but still the church building had been crowded and hot, and the priest had droned about something Arthur found he wasn't able to pay attention to.
He felt guilty for that. He felt guilty for being at work all the time while Lance was in school, unable to help him study or shoot at the range or work out as much as he'd like to. Lance was - was different, but not in a bad way. The scar that arced through his eyebrow was a constant reminder of things that could be, and Arthur stared at it, wanting to trace its thick whiteness in the dead of night, his insomnia playing havoc with his brain and his emotions.
He pitched his keys to the table and fired up the coffee pot, the ticking of the clock in the kitchen loud and his head aching as the words the preacher had spoken danced back and forth in his mind, something about atonement and suffering and he blinked heavily and poured a cup of coffee and drank it. He wished he had a cat, or something to fill his thoughts on days like this, days that were too quiet and full of aching memories he couldn't quite shake.
His gut jerked and I should eat made him twist his mouth, but his starched shirt and pressed trousers told him he should change first, so he set the mug down on the kitchen counter and crossed to the stairs, the single light on in the living room not enough to penetrate the gloom of everything.
His neat hair and shaved chin and nice clothing disappeared as he climbed up the stairs; hands unbuttoning his shirt and fingers then sliding over his head, rubbing their way down his face, his skin reddening with the touch and he froze in the doorway to his bedroom, the soft mmmmmmsniff of breathing telling him Lance was home and asleep and Arthur toed his shoes off silently, setting them correctly in the corner, his shirt falling nicely over the edge of his dresser as he approached the bed and then sat, the mattress dipping with his weight.
The sun shone through the cracked blinds, motes of dust flitting around the still ceiling fan, the softness of the bed and the quiet of the house making Arthur soporific and calm and he shucked his church trousers off, his socks coming with them, and he lay in his boxers on the bed, staring, staring at Lance and wanting to touch the scar through his eyebrow.
The other man was relaxed in sleep, right arm flung haphazardly over one of the pillows, his red lips slightly open as he breathed through his mouth (constant allergies plagued them both), hair mussed and long and Arthur closed his eyes and rolled next to Lance and wrapped his left arm over Lance's middle, the smooth skin and strong muscles warm and familiar and he forgot the dumb spoutings of the priest he'd tried to listen to that morning and thought -
this is love. this is what matters. this is happiness and God be praised for it to be so wonderfully in my life.
"Hi," Lance's voice was deep with non-use, and Arthur smiled without opening his eyes, not wanting to see the lines and worry and dark circles under Lance's eyes that he knew were there. He threaded his fingers through Lance's and pressed his lips to the other man's shoulder. He nuzzled his nose into Lance's neck and squeezed tighter at the quiet laugh that caused.
"How was church?"
"Fine. I'm glad you're here," Arthur answered. He finally chanced to open his eyes and what he saw astounded him - shining brown, calm gaze, lightly smiling lips, heat, desire, but most of all -
"Me too."
Lance leaned up and kissed him, and the starburst that broke in Arthur's vision lit his whole world with fire and calm and fuck everything that wasn't Lancelot Benoit here in his arms.
He felt the slight guilt spiral in the tightness of his back, but he thought, he hoped, and more fervently he prayed that his God would forgive him the ego of that thought, because God was love and this was love and Arthur kissed that love back, and thought he didn't need a cat or more time or anything but what he had.
He lay his head on Lance's chest when their kiss broke and felt the steady thrum of blood flow through Lance's veins and wrapped his arms tighter and felt the touch of lips on his head and he closed his eyes and let the rhythm of heartbeat lull him to sleep.