Arthur paused a moment at his desk, eyes sliding out of focus. He bit his quivering lip and leaned forward, shutting his eyes. One shaky breath was inhaled. He desperately put a cold ridge of the hand to his forehead and endeavored to lean back, to relax his face, to open his throat, to loosen the knot in his chest. The breath left in a rush, followed immediately by a gasping inhale, just short of a whimper. Mouth stretching into anguish that didn't know what to do with itself, he stood up abruptly. Arthur half turned to his bed, then shot a wary glance at the door. He quick-footed it timidly to the bathroom and flicked on the light as he crossed it. Sitting down on the toilet's lid, he leaned down, resting elbows on knees, and ran his fingers through his hair.

This bathroom was not quite clean. It was not well designed. It was an oddly industrial little room with an ugly metal counter and sink, a dark shower, and rough locker room shower flooring. The walls were also gray in here. But the stark, bright ugliness of it, the quintessential bathroom-ness of it was comforting. He could be anywhere; that is to say, he could be somewhere at home.

Counting long, deep breaths, Arthur slowly relaxed his hands down. This would be okay. It would. He liked to be alone. His roommate liked to go out with his friends and he got to be alone in the room. That suited him. Maybe he would go to the bookstore later, or tomorrow. Get a copy of something he liked to reread. Find a way to distract himself. Nonfiction was good, but fiction was easier to distract yourself with. He couldn't believe he hadn't brought any favorites with him. It would be smarter to go through all the books he had brought first; that was true. A good way to actually finish things and work through the long list he wanted to read. Maybe he would try to eat something. Crying made him feel sick. Water should cure the pounding in his head, shouldn't it? It was his head that felt uncomfortably empty and tired and worn out, not his stomach. That was frightened of food. He just wanted to feel normal again. Was that so much to ask for? He hadn't felt normal since they flew out, almost a week ago. His parents had left to the airport about two hours ago. They would be on the plane now . . .

He ran a finger across his eyebrow, the back of his hand across his forehead, scratched his neck behind an ear, traced his lip with another finger. Impatient little gestures, twitches without comfort, they were even physically irritating at this point, but he couldn't stop them. Those little twitches, each initiated in restlessness with the hope of comfort, terminated in pain and frustration. They were habits; he started them before thinking and couldn't stop. His skin felt raw. His head felt raw. He got up impatiently and left the bathroom.

He tried to sit at the desk. Looked in the fridge. Looked at the things in loose organization on top of his dresser. Paced back to his desk and rested his hands on the back of his chair, surveying the disorder of his desk. This wasn't working. He went decisively to the bed, sitting down and wiping his cold feet off before lying down and tucking the fleece over as much of him as he could manage. The air conditioner was up too high.

Eyes closed and breathing erratic, Arthur felt a wave of particular depression. He was not prepared for this. He was not prepared for people to see this. All summer, and especially in the weeks leading up to this, he had been absolutely fine. Would he have handled this better if he had breakdowns before leaving home? He didn't want to think about home. He didn't think this would ever feel like home. He wasn't even sure he wanted this to feel like home. It was just gray. The floor, the ceiling, the walls, it was all gray. Cement, cinderblock, vinyl, all shades of gray. Gray and usage. He needed tape. Rembrandt was not particularly cheerful or colorful, but Rembrandt was not gray. But when he had gone to the store earlier, he had been too afraid to look like he didn't know what he was doing to look around long enough to find the tape. There had to be heavy-duty tape, he knew there had to be. But he had been alone, and in that his self-conscientiousness had reared its ugly head and his dull desire not to appear foolish raged into a terror. Was this what adulthood would be like? This is what his desire to finish high school and get into a big city had rewarded him with? No friends, no hope, no sun, no desire to even call his mother because he was so afraid of crying in front of her? The first silent tear was now tickling his ear, and a second was racing down its track to join it. Through the misery, he spared a moment to wonder why it was never his left, but always his right eye that these tears escaped from. Perhaps he was not in sufficient distress to tempt his left eye beyond watering.

He thought about going to a museum. They, despite all their uniqueness, have an interesting feeling of being universal. Like bathrooms. But museums were what they had always talked about. That was what they were going to do together. Movie marathons aside, he thinks that was what they had been most excited about. But they had never gone. All summer, plans, but no action. It had been disappointing at the time. Now it was the cause of real despair. He was witty, and aggravating, and charming, and not the kind of guy you let your parents meet, despite how perfect they think he is for you, and ARGH! How awful did his timing have to be? May of senior year. And he just had to be so proud of himself, didn't he? Just sent out the deposit, going to a prestigious school on the other side of the country, excited to leave everyone behind. And then it hit, during AP testing, of all times. And he'd been a good boy and kept contact relatively minimal all summer. He thought he was over it. Over him. Who was he trying to kid? Now he was hopelessly alone, on absolutely the other side of the country, trying not to cry noticeably because his roommate and their friend were watching a movie across the room. All because he wanted to go to a museum and it just hit him that he wouldn't be able to go with his mommy or the love of his pathetic little life. It was too late to go today anyway. But was it too early to sleep? He was already a weepy, drivel-y, red-eyed mess, he didn't need to add circles under his eyes to it, did he? No. But Christ! if he's gotten to this point, what dignity did he have left to lose? Where was put together and aloof Arthur? Was life even worth living?

The next two days did not matter. They were the same. Not going to orientation events. Not eating much or well. Not socializing. Trying not to cry in front of people. Especially his mom. Especially talking to his mom on skype. Where he could see the craft room and the dog and the hallway and some of the kitchen and recognize too many things. And couldn't be there. Was it too soon to wish for Christmas break? Or, hell, even Thanksgiving, he'd find a way to get home. Maybe his first impression of this place was right: great school, great program, depressing. This could be the biggest mistake of his very short life so far. He almost wanted to see some of those stupid kids he couldn't wait to get away from in his high school class. Awesome.

He could visit his grandparents this weekend. He was sure his parents wouldn't mind buying him tickets. He was sure his grandparents would love to have him over for the weekend. He was also sure he would be sobbing from the moment he started packing a weekend bag till the moment class started the day after he got back. He couldn't do it. Maybe he'd go to the Met just because the love of his life was telling him it would make him feel better and it was still early enough to go. Maybe he could have his breakdown in front of some dramatic piece of art and see if he could pass off actually being moved to (loud, messy, sort of hysterical, really, really public) tears. It would be better than rotting away in his disgustingly gray room. Almost anything would be better than that though. Maybe he could get another poster. And just plaster those gray walls with old works of art. With the tape that he still did not have. Great. With any luck, it would be easier to find tape at anywhere other than his school's art supply store. At least he wouldn't be lost and trying not to break down because he couldn't find tape, which was stupid in and of itself, in front of his classmates. He would prefer sobbing off to grandma's house. Honestly.

Two very near misses and two very long subway stop waits and one stumbling trip across Central Park, there he was. He had managed decent slacks and a smart shirt and tie, but ironing had given way to a sweater and doing his hair had given way to a strange, floppy beanie thing, which he wasn't quite sure he was wearing right. At least he had remembered an umbrella. Because apparently rain in August is perfectly normal here. At least it was warm and not boiling. Humidity was his best friend, but rain in the high eighties really would have made his day. He let out a long-suffering sigh and looked up at the building whose stairs he had yet to mount.

"Nice to see you took my advice, darling, but are you going to stare at it all day, or go in?" a familiar voice said, ducking under his umbrella.

Arthur turned cautiously, expression broadcasting that he was worried he might be depressed enough to start hearing voices. Possibly soaked brown leather shoes, slacks wet around the ankles and with no crease to speak of, and a t-shirt. A v-neck t-shirt, wet at the shoulders and droplet covered collarbones that were a momentary distraction. Arthur sought to tame his quivering lip by biting it.

"Hey. Love. Are you okay?" Concerned leaked through his smirk at the poor boy's torn emotions.

Arthur finally looked up, into his eyes, and whispered, "Eames?" At the slight, but reassuring nod he received, he raised a hand to Eames' chest, but stopped short of touching him.

"Arthur, are you okay?" he asked, looking at Arthur with perplexed concern.

Arthur's hand made the slightest contact, just enough to feel the heat through Eames' cold, wet shirt.

He chucked the open umbrella and threw his arms around Eames, burying his head into Eames' chest, sobbing. Eames, relatively stunned, could, for a moment, do nothing but look down at Arthur.

He came back to himself, whispering little reassurances and questions, his arms around Arthur, rocking them gently on the spot. As Arthur seemed to calm down he ventured a question that expected an answer.

"Arthur? Come on now, let's sit you down. Sobs always knock me out. Look, look, I've got water in my bag, I've got a handkerchief, I've got your umbrella, we're good. Now, why are you so upset, love?" he said, guiding them back towards the benches behind the street vendors.

Once they had sat down Eames looked at him, thoroughly expecting an answer. Arthur, having wiped his face and blown his nose, was worrying the handkerchief in his hands. He glanced up at Eames, furtively, before looking down at his hands and starting,

"I-I know I s-seem put together and aloof, but I'm-I'm really bad at making friends and I'm shy and people don't really talk to me and I know it's only Wednesday and school hasn't started but I feel like I m-made a mistake coming here and I really miss my parents, more than I thought I would, and I miss home, and I miss things feeling like home because our room is gray and just gray and so gray and I don't know what to do and I haven't been eating much because eating makes me feel sick and crying makes me feel sick and I'm tired all the time and I don't know what to do and I don't like the people because they're all pretentious assholes and I know I'm more mature than they are but I'm stuck sobbing in my room, being antisocial like a little pathetic baby and I don't have any friends and I miss my friends and I miss my dog and I hate you because I missed you so much and I'm a little hermit and it's been raining and everyone seems to have made friends already and they're stupid and I even miss the stupid annoying kids in my high school and I even miss high school and I miss our stupid little town and I even miss all the moths and I don't want to call my mom because I'm going to cry and I hate people seeing my cry and I couldn't find tape and I feel like a fool and I look like one and-and-and-" Arthur had finally run out of steam and stopped to look back down at his hands.

Eames sat in really rather astonished silence for a few moments, before gently prying the much-abused handkerchief out of Arthur's hands and tucking it back in his pocket. He took both of Arthur's hands and waited until Arthur looked him in the eye.

"Arthur, don't you ever before afraid to breakdown in front of me. I don't care when you call. I don't care if all you do is cry for an hour and then hang up. I am here for you. Arthur-Arthur look at me. You will never be completely alone as long as I'm alive." Eames smiled, almost sadly, and wiped away a stray tear, "I love you."

Arthur looked at him. Looked at him like this was the first time he was seeing him. But abruptly grew wary and tensed up.

"I-Thank you. Maybe we should go inside? You know, see the museum and . . ." he said, trying to stand up and walk forward.

Eames stood up, jerkily, frustrated. He held Arthur's hands tight and pulled him back. He looked at Arthur for a moment, angry. Then he swooped in, grabbing Arthur's face, and gave him a chaste, but hard kiss, and drew back, looking fierce. Arthur froze a moment, looking at him. Then nearly jumped into a second kiss on a rather surprised Eames. Between a flurry of kisses, Arthur managed to get out,

"I-I love you too-but-ohmygod-I thought you meant-like a brother-or something-I love you-I love you-I love you-why didn't this-AHH!" and he gave up speaking to Eames' goofy smile, kisses and the first tears of happiness in years.

Arthur would later learn that those summer school classes he had been complaining about Eames taking were to finish his degree early. And that he was sharing an apartment with an old friend of his, a chemistry major named Yusuf, in Williamsburg. Which was not far from Brooklyn. Where his school was.

Later, when Arthur's parents visited for a parents' weekend, they questioned whether there money was going to good use: his roommate had let it slip that this was the most he had seen Arthur in the room since orientation, and at all on the weekend.