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They'd kept their distance from one another ever since Boone told him to keep out of his business. That was fine. It kept things… professional, Arcade supposed. A clear boundary between them was easy to maintain, and it kept the illusion of half-assed respectability alive. It was one thing to have Craig Boone try and blot away whatever he was trying to forget by getting his dick sucked and his ass fucked on the regular, and quite another thing to sleep in the same bed, bathe in the same tub, or navigate the thousand other tiny domestic minefields that said 'close' or 'together' or even just 'friendly'.
It was hard enough to keep things balanced when both parties were on the level. It was impossible to manage when there were three in the bed: two people and a head full of hissing static and bad memories.
So they slept in different rooms. Arcade kept to the master suite and Boone kept to the guest bedroom, always taking the bed farthermost from the door. Two closed doors between them felt like the right amount of space, and it never raised questions when someone else joined them in their quiet little purgatory at the Lucky 38.
It didn't take long for the rot to set in after Boone arrived back at the Lucky 38 some months prior, dusty and footsore, nursing his bruised kidney and a bruised ego to match. The first month had been fine alright; a glorious period of fooling around at all hours of the day and night, hazy drunk on the realisation that the object of his vaguely elaborate jerk-off fantasies turned out to be even more fulfilling than expected, aggressive and demanding yet blessed with a seemingly endless desire to take orders. Subordinate, Arcade had called him, teeth pressed hard to the curve of his ear. Boone just agreed, breathless from the weight of Arcade's hand at his nape, panting hard into musty slept-in sheets. It'd been fine to sleep in the same bed then. It'd been a giddy thrill to wake up with an arm slung over his belly, all that affectionate shit he'd been missing after a long year or two of single beds and long nights at the Followers' compound. It'd been a while since he'd played house with someone, and he got the feeling that Boone was starved for domesticity in his own mute way.
It worked for them, right up until it didn't.
The first time he woke up with Boone's elbow in his throat, eyes wild as he hissed who the fuck are you into Arcade's face, he passed it off as a nightmare. Boone said he was fine.
The second time he woke up to Boone breathing so fast and hard that he thought he was going to hyperventilate, shoulders hunched and his hands balled hard against his sternum, Arcade pretended that he didn't know what was happening to the man balled up on the far side of the mattress. Boone said he was fine.
The third time he woke up to an empty apartment, Boone's belongings untouched except for his boots and wallet, Arcade stared at the ceiling and thought long and hard about anger and stress and how to broach the subject of dealing with a head full of bad memories. Long after the sun had risen and set again, Boone came back with his eye blackened and the stink of The Thorn in his clothes. Boone just said mind your own fucking business.
Craig didn't say a thing a few days later when Arcade discreetly moved his bedside table detritus back to the main bedroom. That was that. It wasn't that some people were unfixable, Arcade reasoned with himself. It was just that... it was just that it wasn't his job. It wasn't his responsibility. It was one thing for Courier to ask him to talk to Lt Markland and put all that fancy psychology into practical use, but there was something that didn't sit right with him about peeling Boone's clothes off then peeling his memories apart. He'd crossed a dozen boundaries already with Craig; taking advantage of whatever or whoever Boone was trying to forget and turning his sad and bitter affection into to something that benefited Arcade's ego. To get inside his head though... that was his limit.
Mind your own fucking business, right?
So Arcade and Boone kept their distance from each other. Two doors worth of space and respectability, and he left Boone alone with his head full of hissing static and bad memories.
They still fooled around when the apartment was empty, and fucked in Arcade's grimy Freeside bedsit when the Lucky 38 was full. The little spark of affection was gone, replaced with a bitter energy that made every suck and every fuck combative and angry and fulfilling.
It worked. It worked right up until it didn't.