by JD Ruskin
“I don’t understand.” Arthur had never had trouble controlling his mouth before. Of course, he had the vague memories of Professor Gibson’s patient expression as Arthur had asked yet another question in a long series of questions, but those questions were nothing to the things he kept blurting out in this house.
Bertie snorted and Arthur caught a whiff of smoke.
“I know.” In the time it took Bertie to fill the kettle with water and put it on the stove, Arthur’s heart hadn’t slowed. Bertie seemed better though, almost calm as he peeped over his shoulder at Arthur. “Are you still angry with me?”
Arthur flattened his mouth and resisted remarking that Bertie must be recovering from his late night to offer him that fake meek look. He just sighed.
“No.” He wasn’t angry anymore. He was a lot of things at the moment—frustrated, horny, confused, hurt—but not angry.
“I’m glad.” Bertie beamed at him for another second that became two, then three, before he tossed his head and glanced away. “Now.” He moved as if he didn’t know his way around his own kitchen, pausing before finally finding the right drawer to get a towel to dry his hands. “I’m going to shower and change.” He paused again when he was finished. “You’ll be here when I come back?”
Arthur nodded before he could speak because he kind of thought now that he’d do anything Bertie asked him to. He even kind of thought, or hoped, that there was something that Bertie wanted to ask him to do. But when Bertie only continued to wait, Arthur nodded again.
“Yes.” He was aware that his tone was still defiant and angry, as if Bertie was the foolish one for asking, but Bertie didn’t seem offended. He only snorted again before shooting Arthur one last look as he slid out the doors.
THERE WERE scones and a china coffee set waiting for him on the table in the living room when he came into work the next few mornings. Arthur assumed Bertie had seen the note about instant coffee, the same way he assumed that the coffee was some sort of peace offering from a guilty dragon.
“I do forget things at times, you see,” he explained to Arthur the day he’d come home late, after he showered and came back downstairs. Arthur hadn’t fully recovered from that strange, tense moment in the kitchen, but he felt comfortable enough to raise an eyebrow at the statement, because after finding two novels’ worth of notes scattered among Bertie’s library, if there was one thing he knew, it was that Bertie “forgot things at times.”
He had left a note. Arthur finally reminded him of that to stop the awkward explanations, though when he added that it had been too soaked to read, Bertie looked at him with such wide-eyed guilt and horror that Arthur sighed and realized he’d already forgiven him. It was no use being angry, not with Bertie already torturing himself.
Next to the scones was a note, because Bertie left him notes for everything now. Arthur couldn’t decide if it was endearing or annoying that Bertie took the time to write him a note wishing him a good morning and letting him know he was in the study. He was going with endearing, but only because the scones were good, not because Bertie had addressed the note to “My darling Arthur” or had been thinking of him. That’s what he told himself, because even if Bertie wasn’t trying to put distance between them anymore, there was still something different about him now, and Arthur didn’t want to upset anything else by obsessing over Bertie any more than he already did.
In any event, if he said anything about it, Bertie would only bat long eyelashes at him and say, “I will gladly give you coffee if you stay with me a little longer, Arthur,” as though it was nothing. It was a lot like when Arthur finished up for the day and Bertie would catch him putting his laptop and some books in his backpack. Then it was “Oh, are you going now, Arthur? But it’s so cold and dark out. Wouldn’t you rather curl up on the couch with me before the fire?” As if he could read Arthur’s mind and knew that each night Arthur was finding it harder and harder to leave.
Arthur looked back in the direction of the study, where he thought he could detect movement, and took an orange scone with his coffee before he set to work getting his laptop out and placing some books on the table. Bertie had requested them, and Arthur had needed to put a hold on them at the library, but they finally came in the day before.
He added a packet of herbs to that and then a new cell phone charger, because of course Bertie had lost his somewhere upstairs, or so he thought, but Arthur hadn’t offered to go up there to look.
Arthur shrugged off his jacket as he finished his coffee and ate another scone with a quick glance around for any audience. Then he gave in and went to the kitchen to get a damp towel for the job he’d given himself today.
For the moment, he was done with books. There were more to be found upstairs, but he wasn’t sure how to ask permission to go searching for them, and in the meantime, before he could figure out how to best put them away, he had to deal with the rest of the clutter from the bookshelves: all those dust-covered odds and ends.
He decided to simply wipe them down first and see what was valuable and deserved a proper cleaning, or a polish in the case of anything silver, and then see what actually belonged on display and what didn’t. Knowing Bertie, there would be awards and statues or a solid gold umbrella stand all jumbled together.
He didn’t think Bertie’s former housekeeper quit because of the nudity. He’d bet she quit because of the mess in here. It would take someone very determined to keep these shelves spotless and in order. Even Bertie couldn’t, and he loved his books. It would take someone who didn’t forget things like dusting because something else had occurred to them.
Arthur smiled at the thought, a smile that he caught sight of in the shiny side of the toaster and quickly wiped from his face. All he needed was Bertie to see that and say something about it, probably something else about dimples.
Kate saw that same smile on his face last night, and her eyes almost popped out of her skull before she made a tiny sound and looked away. She eyed him for most of the rest of the night and flipped through the books he’d brought home to read.
“You shouldn’t change yourself for a guy, Arthur,” she warned him. She still seemed too young to be warning him about anything. But Arthur took her as seriously as he could. She’d been in high school when she met her asshole boyfriend, and confused and hurting. Arthur wasn’t any of those things.
Not that Bertie was his boyfriend. Anyway, Arthur would never say “boyfriend” because it would never compare to “treasure” in an introduction.
“I’m not,” Arthur answered her but followed her stare to the book on the Welsh language he’d been picking through. “The spellings are killing me.” The explanation happened to be the truth—he’d wanted to get a better handle on the language before he typed up anything for Bertie. But the way she then pointed to the other book, a translated Tales of the Dragon Kings, said more than one of her sarcastic comebacks.
He put down the language guide and tried to put his feelings into words that wouldn’t freak her out. He couldn’t say she’d understand if she met Bertie, though he felt she would. Everyone had to see how fascinating he was, how amazing. It was unbelievable that his cell phone wasn’t constantly ringing with people asking him out. Arthur was sure that if Bertie had chosen to teach he would have had grad students and TAs throwing themselves at him.
Arthur finally settled for extending one hand and looking directly back at his sister. His face felt hot, but that didn’t matter, not between them with everything they’d been through.
“I just want to know more. I want to know everything,” he whispered, because it was true; he wanted discover everything—about dragons, but also about this one dragon. His….
His boss, Arthur reminded himself sternly at the memory and crumpled up the towel as he headed into the main room and the collection of Bertie’s tchotchkes.
He knelt in front of the pieces he’d left sheltered under an end table and pulled out one of the heavier ones. He wiped with his finger across the surface o
f the dust, looking for anything that the water on the towel might damage more than at the thing itself. He was going to need a good polish for the silver and some soft gloves and natural oils for any of the older wood items he found.
Arthur made another mental note to pick up what he needed either tonight or tomorrow and then froze and stared hard at what was in his hands and saw, really saw, what it was he was holding. After several minutes, he put it carefully back down, though it was still caked in dust, and picked up something else.
He flicked a dust bunny from one corner and pursed his lips to blow away the dust down one side. The color struck him first, what he could see of it, and then the intricacies of the carvings. He realized what it was and what it was made of, and his heart stopped as he almost dropped it.
Shock made him clumsy, and he didn’t trust himself. Arthur got it back to the floor in one piece, something he was grateful for only distantly because his mind was racing. He peered at the other things he’d set aside to clean while he was focused on the books, and then glanced up toward the second floor and the treasure he hadn’t let himself imagine in any kind of detail.
“… believe in eternity through the accumulation of beauty and knowledge….” That’s what Bertie had said. Arthur looked over at the growing selection of antique books and thought about how just the other day he’d joked that he expected to find a stack of scrolls like in the ancient library at Alexandria, and how Bertie had given him a blank look and then a puzzled frown, almost as if he was surprised Arthur hadn’t found a collection of scrolls in the kitchen alongside the first edition Mastering the Art of French Cooking or among all the back issues of National Geographic in the bathroom.
Arthur jumped to his feet at the thought, leaving the towel behind as he moved around the table and stalked past the kitchen to the downstairs bathroom. Once inside he ignored the magazines, shoving them aside until he found the heavy piece of stone he noticed in there the other day.
He pushed out a breath before he picked it up to set it on the sink, and then he watched his shaking fingers wipe away cobwebs, though he already knew what he’d see carved into it. It was what he’d seen before, he just hadn’t been paying attention, hadn’t thought it was real.
It was a depiction of a Dacian dragon, the weapon of war and intimidation used by the Dacian people before the Romans conquered them and took the symbol as their own. They had probably carved this stone. Romans, ancient Romans, had probably carved this stone. It was probably a piece of some destroyed monument. It was…. Arthur didn’t know enough about stone to tell the age of the carvings just from looking at it, but it was old. More than antique. More than priceless. It was history.
He turned on his heel and stormed back into the main room, stopping to fall to his knees in front of the collection of what he’d thought were pretty, possibly expensive knickknacks. Things he’d been planning on wiping down with a kitchen towel.
The first was a trick dog piggy bank from the late 1880s. The second, the one he’d almost dropped, was a horse carved from chicken-blood jade, carved in a style Arthur was no expert on, but which looked Chinese and was smoothed and worn by time. A very long time. He was scared to touch the rest without gloves, but couldn’t resist running a fingertip over a brooch showing a smiling wolf, shiny and heavy enough for him to assume it was real gold.
They had all been on the same shelf as two marbles and a painted, wooden top that, now that he thought about them, could have belonged to a child a few decades ago or a century ago.
He couldn’t look at anything else yet. He might actually faint. Antiques and artifacts were collecting dust in Bertie’s living room. Priceless pieces from history most likely forgotten about the way he forgot his notes. He could see the yellow globe Bertie liked to spin in his hands sometimes when he was thinking, and was suddenly certain that it had cost a fortune.
He twitched at the sound of padding footsteps behind him and the rattle of dishes as Bertie probably added his teacup to the coffee set next to Arthur’s empty cup.
“Good morning, Arthur,” he murmured in that pleasure-filled voice that made Arthur shiver even when he could barely see straight, he was so upset. “I thought I heard you.”
“You’re rich, oh my God, are you crazy?” Arthur demanded before turning around, clawing his way to his feet only to stay where he was and gesture at the room. He’d known Bertie had money, but he hadn’t known. Not even at his most comfortable during his childhood had Arthur thought to own anything like that horse statue alone. It had probably been in Bertie’s family for generations, and Bertie probably thought nothing of it. No wonder he left it on a shelf next to some pulp novels.
“This room isn’t even remotely temperature controlled enough to preserve any of these things!” Arthur added, his voice cracking dryly. Bertie looked stuck to the spot, his eyes round, his jaw slack, his attention entirely on Arthur and the breakdown Arthur was sure he was having.
“There’s a depiction of a Dacian dragon on that stone in your bathroom. Did the Romans carve that?” His voice kept rising. He might be slightly hysterical. But the bathroom was the last place he’d ever expected to find a piece of the ancient world.
“Really?” Bertie seemed taken aback, but not for the reasons Arthur thought. He made a face and glanced behind him. “How did that end up in the guest bathroom?” His tone of mild interest was not helping. Arthur huffed out a breath so hot he was surprised that he didn’t have smoke coming from his nostrils, and Bertie shut his mouth.
Arthur couldn’t break eye contact and Bertie didn’t seem to want to, but after a few seconds he furrowed his brow and somehow the one tiny motion made the air crackle.
“Arthur.” Arthur didn’t know that tone, but he knew it was dangerous; his pulse said it was dangerous, that something in his attitude was unwelcome. Bertie was standing tensely still, frowning imperiously, like a king, like a dragon king, like Arthur was the human peasant foolish enough to question him.
Arthur couldn’t see Bertie’s teeth but he could see black nails and shimmering skin, and with every second his pulse was roaring louder and louder in his ears. He didn’t have anything, not even a shield, not even the right to say what he was saying, but he scowled and heard himself talking anyway, his voice loud and rough and more than a match to Bertie’s rumble.
“You told me I could clean,” he said it plainly, meaning to be defensive and failing because if any room deserved to be cleaned, it was this one with these incredible things in it.
Bertie’s head went back as if that wasn’t what he’d been expecting to hear, and Arthur saw him draw in a breath and then relax a fraction as he exhaled.
“You were cleaning…,” Bertie went on slowly, not asking, but easing his posture to put a hand on the table. He looked wary. Arthur couldn’t tell why, but he pointed to the items at his feet anyway and then his voice went right back up.
“These are real, aren’t they? You can’t just leave them lying around,” he jumped in before Bertie could get a word out. “They should be cleaned and displayed and safeguarded.”
“Don’t talk to me about money, Arthur.” There was no “pet” or “darling”, just his name, bitten out. But even the way those dark eyes narrowed couldn’t make Arthur stop.
“Money?” Arthur asked in confusion then shook it off. “The only money should go into their care. They should be revered. These things are history. Do you even know what you have here?”
The barked laugh from Bertie startled him and almost made him fall back, but Arthur concentrated on Bertie and the relieved, huge grin on his face that shouldn’t be there when Arthur was mad at him. Arthur hadn’t said anything to calm Bertie down.
He itched with sweat he was only beginning to notice, nerves and fear leaving his clothes damp, but Bertie was languid again and shaking his head gently, as if Arthur was precious and anything he did now was more than fine with Bertie.
Arthur didn’t want any scales tipped in his favor. He didn’t want any scal
es. He wanted Bertie to take this seriously. But the man was waving a hand at him.
“Of course I do!” Bertie insisted with dignity, then peered behind Arthur. “What is that?” Arthur didn’t turn to see what he was staring at, but it didn’t matter, Bertie figured it out. “Oh yes, right, I remember. I haven’t seen that in ages. Did I leave it downstairs? No matter.”
“Is this your treasure?” Arthur’s voice was shaking and he curled his hands into fists at his side. Bertie gave him another considering look and slow frown before shaking his head in a way that explained nothing. Arthur’s irritation must have been on his face. Bertie stopped to lick the corner of his mouth before narrowing his eyes again.
“It’s mine, yes,” he answered at last, and Arthur realized he was clenching his hands, too, but Bertie was doing it over and over again, as if he wanted to grab the items in question and was barely restraining himself.
“But is it your treasure?” Nobody should treat their treasure like this. Then it wouldn’t be special, it would just be stuff.
Bertie opened and shut his mouth and then spread his hands wide.
“My treasure?” His voice rumbled and then he moved, coming forward with a determined expression on his face but stopping abruptly just in front of Arthur.
That close, Arthur could feel all that heat and uncertainty in front of him, the silent stare, the hunger at the talk of treasure, and he dropped his gaze before he got caught staring.
“Is it all like that?” He imagined rooms full of paintings left exposed to the elements and chipped marble and shuddered. “Because that… that stone piece alone should be in a museum. You can’t deny the world that.”
“The world?” Hoarse disbelief brought Arthur’s eyes back up. Bertie’s jaw was stuck out in a petulant, stubborn expression. He crossed his arms. “I don’t like to share, Arthur. Not what’s mine.”