Royally Kissed | ✓

40|1; the colliding moment

—forty—

{ part one }
the colliding moment

PIZZARICO'S DIDN'T NEED Arthur on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so the night before Friday rolled in, he decided to get shitfaced. So fucking intoxicated he'd forget how he'd been well fucked by the fickle finger of fate.

One of Cain's workmates nodded at him the moment he stepped into Slingshot, and then he found his friend talking to a couple of women by the bar.

"Hey, man. No Lola tonight?" the guy asked, smirking at him as he stood by the entrance of the taproom that indicated he was waiting for customers to seat to his assigned tables. "You're always with her, right?"

"No."Arthur shifted his head marginally. "She's keeping tabs on the baby."

"Oh, I see. Your baby?"

"Sure," he shrugged, turning to look at him with a line etching between his eyebrows, "you could say that again. Anyways–" he let out a breath, not really that interested to continue the conversation, "I'll see you around."

Seconds later and Cain caught him pacing towards the bar counter, wiping his hands with a white towel, as Arthur tipped up on one of the stools at the far left end. The former excused himself from the ladies and neared to him.

"You on AWOL again?" Cain asked, running his hand through his hair. His tone didn't hold any hostility now. Not after the day they'd spoken at the back lawn, anyway. Basically, they were good again as much as friendship was considered.

"No. I have my time-off."

"Oh, alright." Cain turned up his eyebrows in a casual manner, cocking his head. "Art, about what happened there at campus–not good, man. Not just for her, but also for you, you know?"

"I know. I just..." he brushed his hand down his face in frustration, especially when the night he climbed up to Paige's room flashed in his thoughts. He shook his head, "I dunno. I couldn't help it." He buried his face in his hands, muttering the words, "Fucking stupid."

Arthur might had been pretty tight-lipped about his situation at first. But Cain not buying his shit was a real act of faith. He knew how to touch his Achilles' heel and he realized it just wasn't worth the guise any longer. So he told him everything.

Everything with eyes closed, and waited for his serious unfavorable judgment. Only to feel a slight nudge and met Cain's small smile. "I knew it," he'd said. "You're an asshole, okay, I'd give you that. I won't say I'm the wiser guy here but you've just made a poor decision, that's all. You're a dick with a good heart, Art. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

Several shots of hard liquor later and Arthur could only see disconnected memories of the night while Cain would check over him from time to time. Constantly, Cain would tell him to take it easy; but when he asked for another drink, Cain told his colleagues not to hand him any alcohol or hell would break loose. The latter seemed to worry that any minute by now, he would pull the trigger.

But Arthur had none of it. He beckoned one bartender that wasn't Cain and threatened him if he'd so much as listen to his best friend. "You shit with me or I will come at you like a motherfucker."

Arthur could faintly remember that he reached for someone and the next second, another guy swore under his breath and undid his hands–perhaps away from the bartender's collar. Quite frankly, his recollection of it was quite fuzzy.

His eyes wandered off at the whole scene–heads tipping back with echoes of laughter which sounded like everyone was mocking him, blurry figures swaying back and forth, and dim lights turning bokeh in his eyes as the world kept spinning around.