The position put him slightly higher than Arthur, so that Arthur was the one who had to tilt his head back for them to kiss as Rory worked at Arthur’s tie, vest, and the tiny buttons of his shirt. Arthur tasted of oranges and licorice, his stubble the thickest Rory had ever seen. He brushed it with his lips, then his own jaw. “I wish beards were popular. You’d look good with one.”

“Christ no, it grows thick as fur. Two days without shaving and I’m indistinguishable from a bear.”

Rory laughed out loud. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He slid Arthur’s shirt off his shoulders, leaving him in a sleeveless white undershirt, soft against his calloused fingers. He was getting better at navigating Arthur’s fancy, complicated clothes.

He pushed Arthur down on his back on the bed and then slid from his lap.

Arthur sat partway up on his elbows. “Where are you going?”

“You still got shoes and pants I need to take off.”

“Oh.” Arthur flopped down obligingly. “Yes, absolutely, get rid of the pants, very clever idea.”

Rory snorted. “Don’t get your hopes up. You’re sexy, sure, but you’re also zozzled.”

“But if we don’t have sex, you’re not going to want to be here.”

Rory froze, hand on Arthur’s oxford. “What are you talking about?”

“You hate being in my flat,” Arthur went on, mostly talking to the ceiling. “You’d rather sleep in your boarding house. Or not even your boarding house.”

“No, I love your pad. I love it here.” Rory hastily put Arthur’s shoes on the ground and crawled up his body. “Bello, what’s making you say this?”

Underneath him, Arthur looked unusually vulnerable, his cheeks still flushed and the sheen of liquor making his eyes brighter blue. “It was past ten when I picked you up. Your house was closed and you don’t have the shop. And you looked so exhausted, like you could barely stand.”

Rory winced. “I’d been on my feet twelve hours,” he admitted. “The new job is—not great.”

“But it’s better than turning to me?”

“Well—I gotta work—”

“Until midnight?” Arthur said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here, but you had my key. If your choice is taking my help or exploitation in your new job, am I actually worse? Am I worse than sleeping on the street?”

“Arthur—” Rory rolled off him, to the side, and tugged Arthur over with him. He pulled off his glasses so he could rest his head on one of Arthur’s wonderful pillows, the two of them face to face, close enough Rory could still see him. “Of course you’re not worse than the street,” he said firmly. “I just need my own income, see? Because what if you—what if something changed between us and you got tired of—just, what if?”