Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/213971.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Inception_(2010)
  Relationship:
      Arthur/Eames_(Inception)
  Character:
      Arthur_(Inception), Eames_(Inception), Ariadne_(Inception)
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe, First_Time, Unresolved_Sexual_Tension, Underage_Sex
  Stats:
      Published: 2011-06-21 Words: 27703
****** Bend It ******
by Nellie
Summary
     Arthur's last semester at school gets way more interesting than he
     bargained for when his gymnastics idol, Eames, moves in just down the
     street. Originally written for this_prompt_here on the kink meme.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
It’s an accident, really, that Arthur is walking past the old dance studio just
after New Years. There’s still snow on the streets but not enough wind to make
it too cold, and he’s got so much of his attention on humming along with his
ipod and swinging his grocery bag that he barrels straight into the man
standing on the footpath.
“Shit!” He says, unhooking his earphones. “I mean, sorry, I didn’t see you
there.”
The man laughs, blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “Serves me right for
standing around texting in the middle of the footpath.”
There’s an accent, thick and British and familiar in a can’t-quite-place-it
kind of way. Arthur frowns. His face is familiar, too, but...
“Hey, you’re a local right?”
Arthur blinks in the middle of his space-out. “Uh. Yeah, I was born here.”
The man rakes his fingers through his hair, dishevelling it further. “You
wouldn’t happen to know the way to the closest coffee shop, would you?”
As a matter of fact, Arthur does. The seniors often hang out there when it’s
cold, because it’s warm and comfy and they get free hot chocolate sometimes if
they’re doing their homework. “Yeah, just head straight down there,” Arthur
points. “Take a left and turn right when you hit Mallory Street, then keep
heading straight. It’s just down there.”
“Thanks. First day in town,” he says, and Arthur finds his eyes drifting from
those blue eyes to the lips almost buried in the tangled scruff of a beard.
That’s when it hits him.
“You’re Eames,” he chokes out. “You...” he trails off before he says something
embarrassing like You’re the Madonna of the gymnastics world or I fucking loved
your pommel horse routine a couple of weeks ago.
Eames looks surprised, and seriously, Arthur has no idea how he didn’t
recognise him instantly even with the facial hair. The lips alone should have
been enough... shit, Arthur has jerked off to thoughts of those lips sucking
him off enough times to make actually being face to face with them kind of
embarrassing and potentially awkward.
“I’m surprised you know who I am, let alone recognise me like this,” Eames
says, rubbing at his beard.
“I... uh.” Arthur’s used to people thinking his obsession with gymnastics is
weird. It shouldn’t be a big deal, because Eames is a gymnast and isn’t exactly
going to get judgemental about a sixteen year-old boy with an unhealthy passion
for vaulting and stationary rings, but he’s starstruck enough that he keeps
tangling up the words. “I really like gymnastics,” he says finally. He doesn’t
say the and you are my god that’s hovering traitorously on the tip of his
tongue.
“Really?” Eames’s eyes light up. “Let me guess. You don’t have the shoulders on
you for the horse or the rings... your best apparatus is the vault, yeah?”
“Oh. No, I’ve never trained.” He shrugs. “There was no studio anywhere nearby,
and I’m too old now even if I did want to go across town.”
“Who told you that? Sure, you’re probably too old to get to competition level,
but who knows. And you’re never too old to just do it for fun.”Eames digs in
his pocket and pulls out a card. “You got a pen?”
Arthur fumbles in his pocket, not sure if he even has a pen in his pockets
seeing as it’s school holidays, but comes up with a pitiful red one that’s all
chewed at the end. Fuck. He hopes Eames doesn’t notice how bad his hand his
shaking when he hands it over, or if he does, puts it down to the cold.
Eames scribbles something on the back of the card before handing it and the pen
back to Arthur.
“Here. I’m opening a studio here,” he waves vaguely at the old dance school,
“in a month or two. Depends how much longer it takes to get all the paperwork
in order. But send me an email, okay? We always need more boys who are keen.”
He takes the card with trembling fingers and stares at the red writing. It’s a
different email address to the one printed on the card, and Arthur’s stomach
does a backflip at the thought that Eames, one of the best male gymnasts in the
world and the fuel for any number of masturbatory fantasies, has just given him
his personal email address. “Thanks so much,” he says, and it comes out fairly
steady.
Eames grins again. “No problem. Hope to see you soon...” he trails off, and it
takes Arthur a second to realise he’s waiting for a name.
“Arthur,” he says quickly. “My name is Arthur.”
“Arthur,” Eames says, and it sounds like he’s trying to taste the word, r
sounds rolling on his tongue. “Bye for now. And thanks for the directions.”
He stuffs his hands in his pockets and walks away toward the coffee shop.
Arthur watches him go, and while it’s not quite the same as when it’s in
spandex, Eames’s ass in jeans is still a thing to behold.
Arthur shakes his head, looking down at the card to prove to himself that just
happened.
“Oh my god,” he whispers to himself, before tucking the card carefully into his
pocket with the pen and walking home, faster than he had been before.
He hands off the groceries to his mom when he gets there, and she eyes him
suspiciously. “What happened? You’re looking pretty excited for someone who
just bought a bottle of milk and some hot dog buns.”
Arthur shrugs off his jacket and contemplates telling her. “Nothing. Just glad
to be home.”
He races upstairs faster than is really decent and flops down on his bed,
pulling out the card again. It still doesn’t feel quite real, so he pulls out
his mobile phone and flicks through his address book. He hovers over Dom’s name
for a second, but as cool as Dom is with the whole gymnastics thing he doesn’t
really understand. Instead he flicks to Ari’s number and punches in a text.
you need to come over n kick me or somthng bc i think i might be dreaming
Arthur picks up the book he’s been reading over the Christmas holidays and
tries to think about something other than how it had sounded when Eames said
his name. A few minutes later his phone goes off.
wut? why?
Arthur thinks for a second about how to word it before going for the
straightforward option.
i met eames. THE eames. hes opening a studio where the old dance place is n he
gave me his email
The next reply is almost instantaneous.
WTF ARE U SERIOUS WHAT. OMG. URE KIDDING RIGHT
no
my cousins are still here i will come over tomorrow okay. HAVE U EMAILED HIM
YET?
okay. and i will
He’s been thinking about sending an email since he got home, actually, but he
doesn’t want to look like some kind of creeper. So he waits until well after
dinner to sit down at his computer and open up his mail.
Arthur sits with his fingers poised over the keys for fifteen minutes chewing
over what to say before he even starts typing. His thoughts keep drifting,
replaying the conversation in his mind, the way Eames’s eyes had crinkled when
he smiled and the exact timbre of his voice.
Finally he types.
Hi Eames,
Arthur here. Just letting you know my email address. If you could let me know
once you get things sorted out that would be awesome.
Thanks again,
Arthur
He expects to wait a few days, if Eames bothers replying at all, so he’s
surprised when his mail icon pops up a few minutes later.
Fantastic! I’ll let you know as soon as I have more details.
Cheers,
E
*
Ariadne doesn’t even say hello when she hammers on his bedroom door the next
afternoon. When Arthur opens it she just holds out her hand and says, “Show
me.”
Arthur obediently hands her the card from under his keyboard, and she bounces
on the edge of his bed. “Holy shit Arthur, you weren’t fucking around.”
“He replied to my email last night, too,” he says, and Ari blinks at him.
“You just got personally invited to go to Eames’s new school. How are you not
bouncing off the walls right now?”
Truth is, Arthur feels like he should be. He can feel the excitement churning
in his stomach, but he’s trying really hard not to act like a teenage girl who
just got invited to prom by her crush, no matter how apt the analogy might be.
“I don’t know? It’s awesome, but it’s nothing to go crazy over.”
Ariadne raises an eyebrow. “Arthur, you’ve been obsessed with him since you
were old enough to realise buff arms and a nice ass interest you way more than
big tits and curvy hips ever will,” she says.
Arthur swings nonchalantly on his desk chair. “Have not.”
“What was the first competition he took his shirt off in?”
“It was the world championship in—“ he starts without even thinking about it,
before glaring at Ariadne. “That proves nothing. You’d have to be fucking blind
not to remember something like that.”
Ariadne shakes her head. “Whatever helps you sleep at night. Tell me more,
anyway. Is he nice in person?”
It’s hard not to dwell on his lips or shoulders or other very nice physical
qualities, but Arthur isn’t about to prove Ariadne right. “Yeah, he was really
friendly.” Which is true. “He was really scruffy too, I almost didn’t recognise
him.”
“Scruffy as in badly dressed?”
“Nah, he looked good.” There was an understatement for the ages. “But I don’t
think he’d cut his hair or shaved since the last competition.”
Ariadne grins. “Rugged, hey. Oh my god, just think. Maybe...” she trails off,
raising her eyebrows suggestively.
“Shut up,” Arthur says, a little bit horrified by how quickly his body responds
with a resounding oh yes please in the form of warmth growing in the pit of his
stomach and subtle tightness in his pants. “No. Just... don’t even put thoughts
like that in my mind.” He rakes his fingers through his hair. “I do actually
want to go to this thing, and it’ll be really fucking awkward if I can’t even
look at him without getting a hard on.”
“So you admit it,” she laughs. “Too late for that anyway. I’ve seen the faces
you pull sometimes when you’re watching his routines.”
She bites down on her lip and widens her eyes in an extremely exaggerated
approximation. Okay, so maybe he does chew on his lip like that. Whatever. “You
are such a bitch,” he says.
Ariadne just throws the card at him, watching as it flutters to the carpet
between them and Arthur stoops to pick it up. “You’re still going to tell me
everything. Like as soon as he emails you again.”
Arthur frowns at her as long as he can before smiling, and nodding.
*
School goes back and Arthur half forgets anything even happened. It had been
too brief, too unreal, and there are more obnoxiously immediate things like the
fact he’s forgotten almost everything he’d learned about calculus before the
winter break.
He’s holed up in the seniors’ favourite cafe with his netbook on his lap at the
end of January, trying to brush up on the definite integral, when he gets the
familiar ping from his email inbox. There’s no denying the way his heart races
into overdrive when he reads the name Eames, and he clicks quickly even though
he’s sworn off email and all non-calculus related computer activities until he
gets home.
Dear Arthur,
Hope school’s going well. Things are coming together pretty quickly with the
studio; it’ll be a couple of weeks yet before it opens but there’s going to be
an exhibition on the 10th at 11am if you want to come along and watch. You can
pick up some paperwork too, if you’re still keen.
Cheers,
E
A perfectly acceptable letter opening like ‘dear’ shouldn’t make his stomach do
triple saltos, but it does anyway. As badly as he just wants to reply with an
unequivocal yes, Arthur takes the few seconds to check his school diary. The
tenth is a Saturday in a week and a half, so he writes the time in before
picking up his netbook again and sending an email he hopes sounds sufficiently
nonchalant but still interested.
He starts shutting down as he calls Ariadne, because honestly, he’s not going
to get any more work done now.
“Heya Arthur. What’s up?”
“I just got another email,” he says, slipping his netbook into its case one-
handed. “There’s going to be an exhibition on the tenth at the new studio.”
“Is Eames going to be performing?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say.” Arthur hopes so though. He really, really hopes
so. “You’re coming with me right?”
“No, Arthur. I have much more important things to do like English homework and
painting my toenails.”
“It’s at eleven in the morning,” Arthur adds helpfully, ignoring the sarcasm.
“I am writing it in my diary as we speak,” Ariadne says. “You had better
introduce me.”
Arthur makes a derisive noise. “Can you imagine what a big deal it’s going to
be? It’s been pretty quiet so far, but I think that’s because he hasn’t really
said anything about it. But it’s an exhibition to promote it, so.” He slings
his satchel over his shoulder and heads for the door. “I really doubt he’s
going to have time to glance sideways at me, if he even remembers what I
actually look like.”
“He remembered to send you an email,” she points out.
He refuses to listen to the hopeful little voice in the back of his mind. “Bye,
Ari.”
As much as Arthur pretends to be disaffected, he’s restless all week. He starts
jogging on the second, getting up before the sun even has time to melt the
frost off the grass and stopping in the park a few blocks down to use the kid’s
jungle gym to stretch on. He’s reasonably flexible; ever since he was old
enough to copy his older sister’s stretches he’s kept up the exercises to be
decently limber. But he’s not that great, and he needs all the practice he can
get.
The exercise burns off tension he doesn’t really want to jerk off to get rid
of, not when he’s planning on having sensible conversations with the primary
source of his teenage sexual frustration in the near future. Arthur would much
rather associate Eames with ‘stretching and exercise’ rather than ‘coming like
a freight train’.
It works, mostly. He’s still overly concerned with his hair before he leaves
home on the tenth, debating between leaving down like he has it most of the
time or slicking it back like he does when he wants to look more mature.
Arthur slicks it back.
He meets Ari at her house because it’s on the way, and she gives him an
appreciative whistle. “Why, Arthur. Got someone you’re looking to impress?”
“Shut up,” he mutters, stuffing his hands in his pockets as they fall into
step.
“You look good,” she soothes.
There’s definitely already a crowd when they arrived, but not so much that they
can’t get a decent vantage point. Arthur glances around as they take their
seats.
“It’s just the spring floor,” he says. “They’re probably only going to do showy
floor stuff today, not any of the other apparatus.”
Ariadne nods like their older sisters weren’t best friends and gymnasts in
highschool and she doesn’t already know just as much about the sport as he
does. She knows how much he likes to explain shit.
Eames doesn’t introduce the show, but with a little craning of his neck Arthur
can see him down on the floor, off to the side. He’s clean shaven now, like
Arthur’s used to seeing him on TV, but he’s left his hair a little long. It
looks really good on him, but Arthur quashes the thought.
The exhibition is all pretty basic, really. Arthur doesn’t watch much show
gymnastics, so it’s actually fun just watching without thinking about skills or
scores for a change. It’s pretty obvious the gymnasts feel the same way, really
getting into their performances in a way that isn’t possible in the strict
straight-rules world of competition gymnastics. Once there have been a few men
and a few women, (Arthur’s watch says it’s been an hour, but it doesn’t feel
like that long), there’s a brief pause before Eames walks onto the floor.
Arthur only half listens to the stuff about the new school; it’s nothing he
hasn’t looked up on the internet already. But he perks up when a few of the
reporters ask questions.
“You turn thirty this year, and a lot of people are saying that this school is
proof that you plan to retire from competition at the end of the season. Is
there any truth to that?”
“There’s a little bit of truth to everything. How much truth is the question,”
Eames says evasively, looking to the sidelines and giving a slight nod to one
of his offsiders. “Anyway, I think it’s time to wrap things up.”
“Damn it, and I was really hoping he’d perform, too,” Ariadne says beside him.
Arthur’s about to echo the sentiment, when there’s a cheer from the crowd as
Eames turns on his heel at the edge of the spring floor and lifts his arms in a
setup. The tight black t-shirt shows off the absolutely fucking delicious bulge
of his biceps, and Arthur feels his blood run suddenly hot.
Eames only does two passes, one to the other corner of the floor and then back
before bowing and waving, but every salto and handspring is as close to perfect
as matters when your body makes gorgeous lines like Eames’s does.
“I still think his best apparatus is the horse,” Ariadne says, as they start to
file out to the foyer.
“Well, yeah.” Arthur snorts like it’s obvious, like two little passes on the
floor didn’t just do ridiculous things to his ability to walk straight.
Arthur really doesn’t expect Eames to notice him when he walks over to pick up
the pamphlets about the classes. He’s got them in his hand and is walking away
before Ariadne tugs his sleeve and it registers that somebody is saying his
name... saying his name like he’s trying to taste the r’s in it.
His stomach jumps into his throat, and he turns. Eames has moved through the
crowd towards them, smile on his face and hair still all tousled from his floor
routine.
Shit shit shit. Stretching and exercise. Stretching and exercise. Not coming
like a freight train.
Arthur manages to smile back. “Hi.”
“Glad you could make it,” Eames says, holding out his hand.
Arthur only hesitates a second before shaking it. Eames’s hand is warm, still
dusty with chalk and a little coarse from years on the horse and the bar and
the floor. And fuck, shit, now he’s going to be able to imagine exactly how
those hands would feel on his body.
Except that that’s a really unfortunate train of thought when Eames is standing
right there, so Arthur drops the handshake as soon as it’s polite to. “It was
great,” he says honestly.
Eames is just opening his mouth when someone calls his name. Annoyance flashes
through his eyes for a second, before he smiles again. “Alas, duty calls.
Thanks for coming!” He says, and is gone before Arthur can formulate a witty
goodbye.
Ariadne pokes him. “Hey, asshole. I thought we had a deal. You were going to
introduce me.”
“I don’t recall any such deal,” he says absently.
He is so very fucked.
*
Saturday after next, Arthur gets up early but doesn’t go for his jog. Instead
he packs his gym bag and showers quickly, frowning at his hair in the mirror
while he brushes his teeth. It’s falling forward into his eyes more than
normal, it’s so overdue for a haircut. Arthur’s not stupid... he knows it makes
him look all of thirteen, and usually he doesn’t really care. He rakes his
fingers through it, tries to tousle it into something attractive rather than
juvenile, and sighs when he fails.
Even so, he doesn’t slick it back. It’ll only get messed up anyway.
“Morning,” he says to his mom, dumping his bag by the door and grabbing an
orange from the fruit bowl .
“Good morning,” she says, laying down the paper. “I was talking to Charlotte
last night after you went to bed, you know. About how you’re starting classes
at Eames’s school.”
“Oh?” Arthur’s stomach drops, thinking of what his older sister might have said
about his slightly more than professional interest in Eames.
His mother nods, before clearing her throat and putting on a decent imitation
of Arthur’s older sister. “Tell Arthur that Eames is totally wasted on him.”
Arthur grins, relieved. “Whatever. She never liked him anyway. Reckoned he had
too much strength and not enough grace.”
It’s true, really, but to be honest it’s one of the things Arthur has always
found attractive about Eames. He’s all thick muscle and power, and maybe he’s
never been quite as successful as he could be at competition because of it. But
Arthur’s glad he never changed.
“Did you get the tape from under the bathroom sink?”
“Yes, mom.” He tucks the orange into his bag while his mother nods approvingly.
“Good,” she says.
Arthur slings his bag over one shoulder and leans in to kiss her cheek. “I’ll
be back in a couple of hours,” he says, heading for the door.
“I’ll be at work, so remember to clean your room before your father gets home.”
“I’ll try,” Arthur says evasively, and heads out the door.
*
It’s kind of nostalgic really, the squeaks and dull thuds echoing through the
studio. He hadn’t been toted about to his sister’s practices since he was about
ten, but the atmosphere was still familiar.
Eames is across the other side of the studio working with a pair of the
advanced girls who had moved from other schools for the chance to train with
him, and Arthur swallows the jealous pang that jolts through his stomach.
It’s surprisingly easy to get caught up in the class, even though the basic
exercises are nothing really new to him. There’s stretching, which he’s used
to, and basic rolls and tumbling practice. Even with the few weeks of daily
jogging and stretching his stomach is burning by the time they start with
backwards rolls over the barrel to start getting used to the movements, and
it’s hard to pull his legs up and over with his stomach muscles alone. At least
he’s going to have amazing abs after a while, and he focuses on the thought as
they run through the exercises.
“So, how’s everyone over here going?”
Arthur almost drops himself on his head when he hears the purr of that British
accent, but recovers enough to finish the roll without looking like a total
idiot.
Eames has a towel draped over his shoulders, tank top clinging to his chest.
He’s smiling, and Arthur doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to get over how
amazing that fucking mouth looks in real life.
He adds his voice to the general murmur of ‘good’ and wipes his hands, suddenly
a lot sweatier than they had been, on his own tank top.
“Mind if I put them through their paces, Sarah?”
Their instructor shakes her head. “Go for it.”
Eames walks them through pretty much the same exercises Sarah has had them
doing, except that it’s a lot harder for Arthur to lose himself in the easy
flow of muscle and bone when it’s that voice telling him when to tuck and how
to extend.
He drifts between them once Sarah takes charge again, helping out here and
there, asking names. Arthur watches him out of the corner of his eye. The
tension that sweeps through him when Eames approaches him is instantaneous, and
he tries not to let it show on his face.
“Hello, Arthur,” Eames says, right as he sets his palms firmly against the
small of Arthur’s back to support him while he rolls backwards.
In that instant, Arthur really wishes Eames would stop saying his name, because
it’s fucking distracting. Not quite as distracting as the warm imprint of his
hands that Arthur can still feel on his lower back like a brand, but
distracting enough. “Hi,” he says, meeting Eames’s eyes, because he’s not a
baby and he can handle this like an adult. Smooth and in control, those are his
middle names.
Eames’s eyes when he smiles make Arthur feel anything but smooth and in
control. He keeps trying anyway.
“Do that one again, and then you can show me how your forward rolls and round
offs are.”
“I only started trying them three quarters of an hour ago,” Arthur blurts
defensively, but Eames just laughs, and the sound makes something twist low in
Arthur’s stomach.
“I know,” Eames says, adjusting his position to better spot for Arthur. “I just
want to see how you move.”
For the first time Arthur is kind of glad Eames isn’t actually the permanent
teacher for the beginner class, because hearing Eames say stuff like that all
the time would probably have him boneless within a week.
I’d love to show you how I move, he thinks, and is a bit disappointed that a)
he doesn’t have the balls to say it out loud and b) Eames would more than
likely laugh in his face even if he did. Instead he takes a deep breath,
pretends the fact Eames is about to touch him low on the back means nothing to
him, and flips.
“Your flexibility is good,” Eames says after a few more exercises. “But you’re
going to need to really work on your strength. I’ll make sure Sarah shows you a
few you can do to start building up a bit.” He claps Arthur on the shoulder.
“Good job though.”
Arthur can’t help the way he grins. “Thanks.”
He ends up sticking around a bit longer after the class ends, feeling sweaty
and a bit sore but mostly good. The cheer squad from the neighbourhood high
school has moved in for their practices, too, and Arthur watches them prance
and flip and throw each other around like it’s effortless while he talks to one
of the girls from the beginner class.
They’re discussing how fucking much their stomach and thigh muscles hurt when
Eames wanders over. Arthur gives himself a second to appreciate the tight t-
shirt he’s changed into and the shower mussed hair, before reminding himself
that he’s being delusional.
“I’d better get going,” Rebecca says, waving at them both. “Later!”
Arthur hates her in that moment for leaving him alone.
“Checking out the cheerleaders are we?” Eames says, teasing.
Arthur shrugs. “Can’t say I’m interested in girls in short skirts.” He watches
as the fliers drop down into their teammate’s waiting arms. “Can’t say I’m
interested in girls, period.”
There’s a few seconds of silence before he realises what he just said out loud,
and he looks at Eames frantically. “Uh, I mean...”
Eames waves a dismissive hand. “Can’t say I am either,” he says, and Arthur
nearly swallows his tongue. There have always been rumours, of course, but if
there’s one thing Eames has managed to do throughout his career, it’s keep a
tight lid on his personal life.
“Oh,” Arthur says weakly. He bends to pick up his gym bag, no longer sure he
can look Eames in the eye without how he feels being obvious on his face. “I
should probably get going too. I have to clean my room before dad gets home.”
Something twitches in Eames’s expression, but Arthur’s not really sure what it
is. “Of course. See you next time.”
Arthur’s half way home before he realises what he thinks the expression was,
and it makes his stride falter. Disappointment.
He shakes his head. No. It was something else, he’s sure of it.
Arthur picks up his feet, and hurries home.
*
“Hey! Arthur!”
Arthur looks up from the suspect cafeteria potato salad to see Ariadne waving
from a table near the door. He waves back, grabbing his juice before weaving
between the tables to sit down beside her. “Hey,” he says, poking at the potato
salad with his fork. “How’s things?”
She makes a vague gesture with her hand. “Nothing exciting to report, unless
you think freaking out about a biology pop quiz is exciting.”
“It sounds exhilarating,” Arthur says, deadpan. “Remember to brush up on
punnett squares. Morrison always puts punnett squares on there. “
Ariadne groans, flipping through the biology textbook. “I will be so fucking
happy when today is over. Dom’s parents are out and he’s doing movies and pizza
at his place tonight, you coming?”
Dom had already holed Arthur up in math class to ask, and Arthur shakes his
head again. “It’s Wednesday. I’ve got homework to do then gym class tonight.”
“Oooh, yeah. Have you made out with Eames yet?”
An undignified choking noise comes out of Arthur’s throat as he breathes in
juice.“Fuck. Shit, Ari.” He coughs a few times before staring at her. “You’ve
got to stop saying crap like that.”
She shrugs and delicately sips her own juice, and Arthur has to resist the pre-
school urge to shove her elbow so she spills it all over herself. “Why? You
want to. He’s hot. He’s there.” She shrugs again.
“He’s also almost thirty, unless you missed that part somehow,” Arthur mutters,
stabbing his meatloaf.
“That doesn’t stop you getting your panties in a twist over him anyway,” Ari
says.
“I regret telling you about the punnett squares. So much.”
“I love you too,” Ariadne says brightly, leaning over to kiss his cheek.
He’s reasonably sure that Ariadne’s teasing is just that... teasing. Still,
when he gets home and throws his school bag on his bed, he’s still thinking
about it. Which is a really stupid thing to do when he’s actually been doing a
pretty good job so far of not sexually objectifying Eames whenever he’s
actually in the same room. Arthur doesn’t want to break the streak by getting
distracted by thoughts of kissing him when he’s meant to be focusing on his
tumbling.
Arthur pulls out his English homework and spreads the notes across his desk,
fully intending to actually get some schoolwork done before gymnastics class in
a couple of hours. His mom had only agreed to the extra class a week on the
proviso his grades didn’t slip, so he doesn’t want to take any chances.
Because, Eames aside, he’s actually really fucking enjoying it. He feels better
than he ever has, and after only a month he can already see the new muscle
definition firming his stomach.
The third time he tries to focus on Abigail’s motivations in The Crucible and
his brain supplies the answer as Eames’s mouth, Arthur sighs and flips the book
shut. Instead he rips a new sheet of paper out of his binder and draws a heavy
red line down the center.
After an hour of frowning at the page, it has two headings; Reasons Eames Would
Give Arthur The Time Of Day Let Alone Make Out With Him on the left, and
Reasons Eames Would NOT Do That Other Stuff.
The left hand column is empty.
The right hand column has I AM SIXTEEN written in it, underlined several times
and outlined creatively in red.
Arthur considers it for a moment longer, before shredding the paper thoroughly
and opening The Crucible again.
*
The thing is, Eames does give Arthur the time of day. He gives him a whole lot
more than that, always being friendly and coaching Arthur along whenever he
gets a chance. That more than anything makes Arthur scared to think too much
about what he really wants, what he wants to do to Eames and what he wishes
Eames would do to him. Because it is tempting, really fucking tempting, and
Arthur’s so fucking glad he started jogging to stave off the pure twitchiness
Eames incites in him because he’s sure he would have done something
monumentally stupid like actually try to kiss him by now if he hadn’t.
He gets up early six mornings a week now, before the sun comes up, and heads
out for his run and a stretch. If the grass isn’t too wet and slippery he does
a few practice flips and hand stands, but the jogging is the main thing.
Arthur sits on the stoop to pull his sneakers on and flips through playlists on
his ipod for a second before walking briskly down the drive and breaking into
an easy run when he gets to the footpath. It feels good. Not the same way a
really good wank would, obviously. But it’s still blood rushing in his ears,
the harsh scrape of breath once he pushes past his comfort zone, rhythmic pound
of his sneakers against the concrete.
He totally zones out, not expecting to see anyone except for the few cars
already moving around so early in the morning, people who have the misfortune
of having to be at work by the time the sun is up.
“Arthur!”
At first he thinks he imagined it, someone calling his name over the music from
the ipod in his ears. But then he hears it again, so Arthur slows and looks
around.
He almost trips over when he sees Eames jog across the street. Arthur takes his
earphones out, tucking them into his armband. “Oh, hi,” he says, feeling
vaguely embarrassed that he hasn’t washed his hair or put on a fresh t-shirt.
Arthur plans on sweating it out hard in the mornings, so he usually isn’t
worried if he goes out into the pre-dawn looking totally gross.
Eames doesn’t seem to notice though, and Arthur notices how worn his tank top
is, a couple of holes over his ribs showing off spots of skin. “You jog this
early most days?”
Arthur shrugs, more focused on not staring at the sweat beading on Eames’s
collarbones and thinking about how much he wants to lick it off than on any
kind of conversation. “Most,” he says, trying for nonchalant and hoping he
doesn’t sound distracted instead.
“In my experience you can’t drag most teenagers out of bed before sunrise,”
Eames says, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
“I’m not most teenagers,” Arthur says, and he doesn’t mean for it to sound so
defensive.
Eames bounces a few more times, as if thinking about Arthur’s answer. “Where do
you run?”
Arthur’s heart is beating hard, and it’s nothing to do with the exercise. He’s
going to go with you, he thinks, before swallowing and replying, “Just down to
the park. I usually use the jungle gym to stretch on and then take the long way
home, around the back of the block.”
“Mind if I tag along?”
He’d been expecting it, hoping for it even, but the words still make Arthur’s
tongue stick in his mouth. So he just nods, and sets off again.
Eames falls into step beside him easily. Without the music in his ears every
thud of his feet on the pavement is louder, every harsh intake of breath.
Worse, he can hear Eames beside him, hear the same slight raggedness on the
edge of his breathing.
That, combined with the way Eames’s broad shoulder nudges against his just a
tiny bit every now and again, is enough to have Arthur fighting not to bite his
lip like he always pretends he doesn’t but knows he actually does.
“So,” Arthur says, because the silence is killing him and he’d rather make a
fool of himself than put up with the silence and all the stupid thoughts it
leaves room for, “you live near here then?”
“Yeah. Just back down the other end of the avenue. I bought an old colonial
place, it’s gorgeous.”
They reach the park before Arthur can come up with something else sufficiently
inane to say. The sun is creeping well over the horizon by then, spidery
fingers of golden light reaching across the dewy grass and drawing lines across
the kids’ play equipment.
“I’ll spot for you if you spot for me,” Eames says, stretching his arms
casually over his head. The motion makes his tank top ride up, and Arthur can’t
help the way he stares at that exposed stripe of firm stomach.
“Sure,” he says.
It shouldn’t be any different than when Eames touches him in classes, it really
shouldn’t. It’s the exact same motions, the exact same points of contact. But
something still feels different, outside in the fresh morning air, in their
crappy gym clothes together with nobody else around.
Arthur hopes Eames puts his fast breathing down to the exercise.
“Put your ankle up here,” Eames says after they’ve run through most of the
basic stuff Arthur does when he’s on his own.
Arthur obeys and leans into the stretch. He can’t quite reach his toes yet, but
he’s working on it, really.
He’s thinking about this dilemma when he feels a sudden warm weight against his
back, and then Eames is pushing him down gently, just far enough that Arthur
can reach his foot.
“Hold it for ten,” Eames says, and that British voice is right next to his ear,
all that muscle is pressed against him, bending him over.
As pathetic as it sounds, it’s probably the most erotic moment of Arthur’s life
thus far.
By the time they’re done, Arthur is really fucking glad he wore his old baggy
gym shorts.
They jog back the long way and Arthur slows to a stop in front of his house.
His mom will be up soon getting ready for work, so if he wants a shower before
she uses most of the hot water he should probably hurry up. But he hesitates
anyway.
“Thanks for that,” Arthur says, fidgeting with his headphones.
“A bit of company is always nice,” Eames replies, still bouncing slightly from
one foot to the other. “You’re making really good progress too, you know.”
Arthur smiles. “Thanks.”
Eames tilts his head. “You’ve got dimples when you actually smile,” he says,
like it’s a revelation. Which Arthur supposes it probably is for him.
He rubs self-consciously at one cheek anyway, wondering where Eames is going
with this. “Yeah.”
But Eames doesn’t say anything else, just waves and shouts a “See you
tomorrow!” over his shoulder as he jogs off down the avenue.
Arthur’s mom still isn’t up yet, so he counts himself lucky and locks the
bathroom door behind him. He strips off his sweaty clothes and starts the water
running before throwing them in the hamper and getting into the shower.
Normally the morning run leaves him feeling steady and mellow, but today he
still feels too tense as he scrubs his hair. Too hot, like his skin is just a
little too tight.
“Fuck,” he mutters when he realises he’s half-hard. The whole point of the
jogging was meant to be to blow off tension, not fucking cause it. Fuck Eames
for ruining everything.
Arthur’s body only pays attention to the part of the thought that has ‘fuck’
and ‘Eames’s next to each other. He hasn’t jerked off thinking about him since
the classes started, didn’t want to, not when he has to actually talk to him at
least two or three times a week. But...
He turns the heat down and braces a forearm against the tile, shifting his legs
apart a little and just enjoying the sensation of water running across his
skin. And he’s not going to think about Eames, he’s not, he’s just going to get
off and that’s that.
Arthur’s lying to himself though. He’s thinking about muscular arms and nice,
chalk-coarse hands when he closes his hand around his cock, perfect collarbones
and blue eyes at the first stroke.
There’re still a few magazines with particularly nice photo shoots in them
stashed under his bed, probably with more than a little come splashed on the
pages, but he doesn’t need them now he’s had the real thing up close and
personal. Not now he actually knows how Eames smells, how his fingers feel
splayed across Arthur’s back.
Arthur spreads his legs a little wider and rests his head against his forearm,
twisting his wrist in a familiar rhythm while he remembers the feeling of all
that muscular warmth draped over the curve of his spine. Bending him over,
holding him down and urging him to spread his legs wider, perfect fucking lips
wet against the back of his neck and his shoulder blades. Thrusting against
him, inside him, purring Arthur, Arthur, oh God Arthur in that ridiculous
fucking accent and holding his hips hard enough to bruise, pulling him back and
pushing deeper and that’s it, he’s fucking undone.
Arthur’s hips jerk as he comes, knees trembling as he bites down on his forearm
to muffle the low moan pleasure tears from his throat. He leans against the
tile, shaking, hand still wrapped loosely around his cock.
Then he frowns. Annoyed at himself, he makes sure to wash any trace of come
from the tile and his hand and shuts off the water.
So much for jogging taking the edge off.
*
It’s surprising how easy it is to fall into patterns. Jogging in the mornings,
accompanied most of the time now by Eames; jerking off in the shower, which
Arthur is finding harder and harder to pretend has nothing to do with Eames,
school, chores, homework and gym classes. Midterms roll around before he even
has a chance to notice how fast the year is going.
“We’re still good for next week, yeah?” Dom says, slamming his locker shut and
eyeing his exam timetable like it’s about to bite him.
“Yeah,” Arthur says, scooping out all his loose calc notes and elbowing his own
locker closed. “Mom said it’s fine so long as we promise to swap driving duty.”
He tries to shove all the notes into one binder. “I mean, she’d rather come
too. But she can’t get the time off work and dad’s out doing field work again,
so.” Arthur shrugs.
Dom’s face perks up a little. “So one week, one week of surviving fucking
exams, and we get to go taste college freedom.”
Arthur nods, distracted. And it’s not that he’s not excited about the college
trip, completely parent-free and unsupervised in a way that’s still totally
novel for them. But fuck, there’s this calculus exam that he needs to ace to
keep his GPA in maths up, and extra gym work on his arms to try and get him on
apparatus other than the floor, and...
“Shit,” he says, as the head down the corridor. “Don’t let me forget I have to
tell Sarah I’ll be missing classes next week.”
“Don’t forget to tell Sarah you’ll be missing classes next week,” Dom says.
Arthur punches him in the arm.
*
He spends some time commiserating with Ariadne and Dom about the content of
their biology midterm, and heads home via a long looping route that takes him
by the studio. It’s fairly quiet, mostly because Tuesdays nights are only for
individual coaching. There’s not even anyone in the gym, so Arthur shifts his
backpack to his other shoulder and walks through to the small offices.
He hears Sarah’s voice, then Eames’s, drifting from the main office Eames uses.
The door is just a little ajar, so he lifts his hand to knock.
Arthur stops with his fist almost on the door when he hears his own name.
“You should choose Arthur,” Sarah says, and Arthur figures they’re talking
about the spring exhibition. Most of the advanced students will be graded, and
there’s been talk a few of the beginners will get a chance to perform as well.
He didn’t think he’d be one of them.
“No.”
That’s Eames’s voice, and the way he snaps the negative hurts more than Arthur
thought it could.
“Why not? He’s making great progress, you said so yourself. He’d be a great
example of just how much an adult beginner can achieve, and the extra coaching
with you for the prep would do him good.”
“I really don’t think he’s the best choice.”
Arthur frowns. It shouldn’t matter so much, what Eames thinks of him. But fuck
him, what had all the smiles and compliments, the fucking jogging and chatting
together, been then? A front?
There’s the sound of papers being shuffled around inside the office, and Arthur
leans back from the door. He doesn’t quite catch the last couple of exchanges,
even though he strains.
He schools his face into what he hopes is a nonchalant expression, lifts his
hand, and knocks.
Sarah opens the door, her eyes going wide. Arthur forces a grin and hopes it’s
not obvious he was just eavesdropping and heard almost every word. “Hi,” he
says. “I just want to—“
“Arthur! Speak of the devil. Eames wants to talk to you.” She opens the door
wide enough for him to slip into the office.
Eames is leaning back against the desk, ankles crossed. He’s wearing a
sleeveless shirt, why does he always wear sleeveless shirts, tension from
gripping the edge of the desk bunching the muscles of his biceps and forearms.
It shouldn’t be like a punch in the gut anymore, it shouldn’t. Arthur should be
fucking used to it by now.
But he’s not.
“I’m just ducking out to make those phone calls,” Sarah says. “I’ll be back in
about twenty minutes. Bye, Arthur!”
“Wait,” he says, but the door is already closing. He turns his attention back
to Eames. “I had to tell her something.”
“I can give her a message if you like,” Eames says, uncrossing his legs and
pushing away from the desk, standing up straight. The sudden change in his
posture gives him the extra inch or two over Arthur that will probably go away
once Arthur finally finishes growing, but for now the difference in his bulk
and his height make Arthur feel boxed in whenever Eames gets close to him.
“I’m going on a trip to a college open day next week, for the break,” Arthur
says, trying to keep his voice steady even though everything about Eames’s tone
and posture feels closed off and disinterested. It’s such a one-eighty to the
easy rapport Arthur thought they’d been building, and he’s not sure exactly how
he should react. “So I won’t be able to make it to classes.”
“I’ll make sure Sarah knows.” Eames rakes his fingers through his hair, still
just that bit long and scruffy, and breathes in. His posture relaxes a little,
and the smile he gives Arthur next seems genuine enough. “I actually wanted to
talk to you about the spring exhibition. If—“
“It’s okay,” Arthur interrupts. “I’m too... too busy anyway.”
Eames narrows his eyes, and shit, he knows, Arthur knows he knows. Minus fifty
subtle points, right there.
But then the expression is gone. “It’d be an extra hour on Saturdays for the
next few weeks, plus a few individual sessions.”
“It’s okay, really,” Arthur says.
They stand in awkward silence for a moment, before Eames leans back against the
desk and sighs. “Look, Arthur. Whatever you heard just now... you’ve got it all
wrong. Sarah’s right. You’re a really promising student, and you’d really do
well with some individual coaching.”
“But you don’t think I’m the best choice,” Arthur says, and he knows he sounds
bitter but he can’t help it.
Eames sighs again and scrubs his hands over his face. “Arthur,” he says again,
and seriously, fucking seriously, Arthur wishes he’d stop saying his name that
way, with the rumble and the purr. “That’s...”
Arthur just waits while Eames trails off, raking his hand through his hair
again. And suddenly it hits him. He’s never, ever seen Eames this tense and
nervous before. Hell, he’s never seen him nervous, period.
“That’s not because you’re not capable,” Eames says finally. “And I’d like it
if you said yes.”
As if he could say no, even if he doesn’t know what the fucking problem is.
“Okay.”
“You’ll be home by next Saturday, yeah?”
Arthur nods. “We should be.”
The moment hangs in the air until Eames stands up again. “Fantastic. I’ll make
sure Sarah knows what’s going on, too.”
He rests his hand on the small of Arthur’s back and gently ushers him out.
Arthur knows the feel of that hand, confident support during a practice flip,
firm pressure when he needs help with a stretch. But Eames has never touched
him without needing to before.
Arthur resists just a little, just enough to feel the broad pressure of Eames’s
fingers splayed across his spine. Part of him wants to look back, see what’s
going through those blue eyes, but he doesn’t.
“Thanks,” he says, once he’s out the door and that hand is off his back, even
though his heart is still racing from the contact.
“Anytime,” Eames replies.
The door shuts behind him before he can turn, leaving Arthur staring at the
frosted glass. The heat from Eames’s hand is still playing along his spine,
twisting into hot emotion that settles heavy in his stomach. He knows he’ll end
up fucking his own hand over it later, no matter how much he tries to deny it.
And the worst part is, if he didn’t know any better... he’d be pretty sure
Eames is doing it on purpose.
Arthur takes a deep breath at the thought, summons a mental image of the piece
of paper with I AM SIXTEEN on it in bold red, and heads home.
*
“Good. Again.”
Arthur swings his arms once, setting up for the pass, before repeating the same
combination of skills from one corner of the spring floor to the other. He
stumbles a couple of steps outside the boundary of the floor when he lands, but
it doesn’t matter. Everything else had been perfect. He could feel the balance
of it, the way his hands hit the floor with just the right amount of push to
follow through into the final salto. It’s a pure adrenaline rush, and he rakes
sweaty hair off his face and grins at Eames.
Eames unfolds his arms and claps twice. “We get you sticking those landings,
and you’ll be golden.”
The praise still does stupid things to Arthur’s ability to breathe properly, so
he just flourishes a bow.
“Show off,” Eames laughs. “You’ve got a long way to go yet.” He gestures at the
floor. “Stretch it out.”
“But I’ll be good enough in time for the show, right?” Arthur says, lying on
his back and stretching his body out into one long, taut line.
“Without a doubt.”
Eames shifts into Arthur’s line of sight then, nudging one of his knees with
his foot. “Up.”
Arthur obeys, lifting his knees to his chest. Within a few seconds Eames is
clucking his tongue, kneeling down on the spring floor and resting his hands
gently on the backs of Arthur’s thighs. “Further. Like this.”
It’s barely any pressure at all, just a soft curl of Eames’s fingers against
his skin, and Arthur can’t help the tremor that ripples through his muscles at
the contact. “I can take it further,” he says, catching Eames’s eyes through
the gap between his legs. He’s surprised he can form words at all, actually,
with Eames bending him in half on the floor. It’s not like he hasn’t imagined
it before, granted with fewer clothes and more foreplay involved.
Eames just raises an eyebrow. “Can you now?”
The pressure on the backs of his thighs increases. Arthur lets out a long
breath, and lets Eames push his knees closer to his ears. He’s definitely
trembling now, half from exertion and half from how fucking turned on he is.
A tiny bit more pressure, and Arthur sucks in a breath. He can handle this. He
can handle this on all counts. A few more seconds and...
“You’re gorgeous like this, you know.”
Arthur stares up at Eames. “Wha... what?” Fuck, it burns, the stretch and pull
of his calves and hamstrings, but Eames doesn’t relent, doesn’t let go, just
leans in closer until their bodies are touching.
He’s hard, Arthur realises, heart racing like a rabbit’s. He’s trapped, Eames’s
fingers digging hard into his thighs now, all that weight bearing down on him,
and he feels like he’s suffocating in the most amazing possible way.
Eames rocks forward, grinding against him, and Arthur tries and fails to
swallow the moan.
“You heard me,” he whispers, nuzzling at Arthur’s ear.
Arthur shuts his eyes, not sure what to do with hands, not sure what the fuck
to do at all apart from tilt his hips up as far as he can and try for more
friction. It’s nothing like the feel of his own hand, even without skin on
skin. It’s hot and real and oppressive, and he can feel sweat that isn’t his
own trickling down the side of his neck.
“Fuck, it... fuck.” He tries to buck his hips up harder, but it’s impossible to
get any leverage with Eames holding his legs up and pressing down on him. God,
he’s never needed to come so badly in his entire life.
But Eames just holds him, pinned, shoulders bunching with each slow roll of his
hips. “Wait,” he says, turning his head to slide his tongue along the crease of
Arthur’s knee.
Arthur digs his fingers into Eames’s scalp and groans. He’s shaking, the
stretch through his legs hanging on the razor edge between pain and pleasure,
every nerve wanting to arch up against Eames, wrap his legs around him.
“Can you hold on for ten more seconds?” Eames says, breath hot and moist
against Arthur’s temple.
Arthur’s not even sure if he’s talking about the stretch or about coming, but
it doesn’t matter. Eames thrusts hard, and Arthur comes anyway, toes curling
against air above his head. Fuck, fuck, Eames hasn’t even put a hand on his
cock and it’s still better than any jerk off session he’s—
Arthur wakes up panting, sticky wetness on his stomach and staining his boxer
shorts.
“Shit,” he whispers, staring at the motel ceiling while his heart stops racing.
Then he throws back the sheet and gets up tentatively, shuffling to the
bathroom to clean himself up.
He splashes water on his face and uses a washcloth to wipe the mess from his
skin before changing into a fresh pair of shorts. It’s such bullshit. He might
be sixteen, but with the amount he’s been jerking off lately there’s no fucking
way he should have to put up with crap like this.
It’s barely dawn, so he’s careful not to wake Dom as he grabs his phone and
retreats back to the bathroom. He sits on the lid of the toilet and toys with
it for a few minutes before scrolling through and hitting the dial button.
“Arthur,” Ariadne’s voice says after a few seconds. “Why are you calling me at
five thirty in the morning?”
“Because you’re the only one who has to be at work this early over the break,”
he says. Of course, it’s also because he couldn’t have this conversation with
Dom, or his Dad, or even his Mom.
There’s a high pitched sound from an espresso machine in the background before
Ari speaks again. “This is true. But it doesn’t tell me what the fuck you’re
doing.”
Arthur doesn’t mince words. “I can’t do this Ari. I can’t.”
“Of course you can,” she soothes. “Your GPA is fine, better than fine, and I’m
sure everybody there will love you so long as you keep your mouth shut and
don’t act like the asshole I know you are.”
“What... no.” He shifts the phone to his other ear. “The college thing is fine.
I mean this spring exhibition, I mean these extra classes with Eames. I mean
Eames, period.”
“Arthur, if you got a chance and didn’t do him I’d have to disown you. Just a
sec.”
There’s a clatter and more talking in the background, and Arthur frowns at his
wet boxer shorts, rinsed and wrung out and hung over the shower railing.
“Back. I really don’t get what the problem is.”
Arthur rakes a hand through his hair restlessly. “You’re deranged, is what you
are. Seriously Ari. Sure, he’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, and he
actually acknowledges my existence. He fucking touches me all the time, and I
can’t stop thinking about fucking him. But I already said yes. I shouldn’t have
said yes. He didn’t really want me anyway, Sarah just—“
“Arthur,” Ari snaps. “Calm the fuck down. You need to go back to bed and get up
on the right side, because this situation is not as awful as you seem to like
thinking it is. Fact: Eames likes you. Whether this includes in a kinky
jailbait kind of way remains to be seen, but he does like you. I’ve seen the
way he talks to you. Fact: I actually have faith in your ability not to start
humping his leg in the middle of class. And if it gets you all hot and
bothered, well. I don’t think I need to tell you how to deal with that.”
“You are so fucking unhelpful,” Arthur says, but he doesn’t mean it.
There’s some more gurgling coffee sounds. “Are you okay?” Ari asks finally.
Arthur slumps back against the cistern. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. Just having a
minor freak out.”
“I gathered as much. You can keep talking, if you want.”
She can’t see it, but Arthur shakes his head anyway. “I think I’m over it. For
now.”
“Good. Look after yourself, hey? Call again if you need to, it’s fucking dead
here.”
“Thanks. Bye.”
“Bye, Arthur.”
The phone hangs loosely in his hand for a minute, before he gets up slowly and
crawls back into bed.
*
Dom drops Arthur home on Thursday night. The last two days have been a
distraction, college and freedom and no parents to hold them to curfews or tell
them what to do. But as soon as he swings open the front gate Arthur remembers
how he usually waves goodbye to Eames after their morning runs here, and it all
comes crashing back.
He tries not to think about it.
Which is actually easier than he worried it would be. His mom is full of
questions about the trip, half of which don’t even have anything to do with
college (“How was the drive?” “I hope you didn’t drink”). There’s even a proper
sit-down family dinner because his dad is home for once, which is nice.
Once he heads to his room for the night, school manages to keep his mind busy
and he rearranges his notebooks ready for starting back on Monday. He throws
out most of his midterm notes, and it’s not until his head actually hits the
pillow that his thoughts drift towards Eames again. He’s sleepy enough that
it’s easy to convince his brain that everything is going to be fine.
The half-asleep subliminal reassurance must stick, because when Arthur gets up
the next morning he still meets Eames for their habitual jog, even though he’d
seriously considered changing his exercise time to late afternoon just to avoid
unnecessary contact.
And it’s not that bad, really. Spending time with Eames never is, and most of
the time they’re too busy talking about sport and math and shitty movies for
Arthur to remember how badly Eames gets under his skin.
They’re halfway back to Arthur’s house when the rain starts to pour, thick
sheets that drown out the conversation. Eames still stops at the front gate.
The water is making his hair stick to his forehead and his t-shirt cling to his
chest and shoulders in a way that’s totally fucking indecent, and Arthur
swallows hard. He knows he should say goodbye and head inside, because he’s
soaked too.
Instead of goodbye, though, he ends up saying, “I could get you a towel, or
something.”
Eames stares at him, unreadable. Fuck, Arthur thought. Of course it was a
stupid thing to say, because Eames has already made it pretty clear that the
jogging is fine but anything else--
“Okay.”
If it weren’t pouring rain, Arthur could probably find the time to be surprised
and terrified by the prospect of Eames actually coming into his house. But he
just nods, swings open the gate, and heads up the drive without checking to see
if Eames is following.
He takes a second to shake most of the water from his hair on the front porch
before he looks back, and yeah, Eames is still just behind him.
Arthur swallows again, and tries to work out what stupid part of his brain
relaxed enough to think this is a good idea.
“Hopefully it’ll lighten up soon,” Eames says, shaking out his own hair with
his fingers. “I’ll just wait a few, and if it doesn’t... well. I’m wet anyway.”
Yes, yes you are, Arthur thinks, trying to ignore the way Eames’s nipples are
showing through the wet fabric of his t-shirt, hard from the sudden chill.
He toes off his sneakers as lightning cracks across the sky. “It got dark
really quick. Maybe it’ll go away just as quickly.”
It’s still pretty dark at this time of the morning, but the storm makes the
inside of the house nearly pitch black. Arthur flicks on the hall light. “Just
down this way.”
The hallway leads into the open kitchen and living room, and Arthur pauses,
looking at Eames. He’s glancing around, barely paying any attention to Arthur.
“I’ll just grab some towels,” Arthur says, before ducking up the stairs. He
steps as quietly as he can to not wake his parents. His mom managed to get the
day off to spend some time with his dad before he goes back out field, so
they’re probably not planning on getting up anytime soon, anyway.
He pulls two towels out of the linen closet. Not that it would really be a big
deal if they did. The only reason Arthur feels awkward about the fact Eames is
standing around wet in the middle of his kitchen is because it makes it hard to
forget the filthy things he wants Eames to do to him.
By the time he gets back downstairs he’s mostly managed to shove those thoughts
back into the far corner of his mind he usually keeps them in.
Eames is looking at the things stuck to the fridge, and the sleek lines of his
back and shoulders under the clinging wet shirt are almost enough to undo all
the effort Arthur put into not thinking about filthy things.
Stretching and exercise, Arthur reminds himself, even though stretching isn’t
exactly such a safe thought anymore after that stupid fucking dream. “Here,” he
says, holding out the towel.
Eames jolts at the words, as if he was doing something wrong. But he smiles,
taking the towel and rubbing at his hair. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” Arthur says, drying off his own hair before starting on the water
beading on his arms and face.
“You take biology,” Eames says after a minute.
It’s not a question, and it takes Arthur a second to realise that his biology
cram notes are still stuck to the fridge with a magnet. “Oh. Yeah.”
Eames slings the towel around his neck and looks at the notes again. “They do
aerobic and anaerobic stress tests in high school bio now?”
“No,” Arthur says. “I take AP bio.”
“Yeah?” Eames reaches for the notes. “Mind if I...?”
“No, no, go for it.”
Okay, so he’s a bit embarrassed about his chicken scrawl, but it isn’t like
anyone else was ever meant to read them.
“Did you get into biology because of gymnastics?” Eames asks, flipping through
the notes. “That’s why I ended up taking a major in it.”
Arthur opens his mouth, then closes it again, contemplating whether or not to
tell the truth. “Actually,” he says, because it’s Eames, “it was because of Re-
Animator.”
Eames’s head jerks up, surprise in his eyes.
“It’s one of my favourite crappy horror movies,” Arthur explains quickly, heat
creeping into his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose. “And it has all
this crazy pseudo-science in it that got me really interested in--”
“No, I know the movie,” Eames says. “Have you read the story?”
Part of Arthur wonders if it’s somehow a trick question. The other part is just
excited, because holy shit this must mean... “I’ve read all of Lovecraft’s
stuff,” he says, and something about the way Eames’s eyes light up makes his
stomach flip.
“I love everything like that. I’ve got a vintage collection of Weird Tales
that’d probably be as tall as I am, if I stacked them all up.”
Arthur’s pretty sure that he’s never actually wanted to make out with Eames
more than he does at that very moment. “I’ve got a few,” he says. “Mostly the
ones with Lovecraft’s stories in them, but still.”
Eames grins, sticking the biology notes back on the fridge. “I can lend you
some if you like. I’ll wrap them up and put them in your mailbox on my way to
work.”
“That’d be awesome,” Arthur says, and he’s not kidding. “I really like the ones
where--” Eames shifts, and he catches sight of the clock in the microwave.
“Shit, I mean, sorry. I should probably have a shower and start getting ready
for school.”
There’s silence, and Arthur glances back at Eames to see his eyes have changed
again, from something bright and keen to something far warier. “Of course you
do,” he says, tone clipped at the edges. He drags the towel off his shoulders
and hands it back to Arthur. “The rain seems to have let up, anyway.”
Arthur hasn’t been paying attention, but when he listens it’s true... the heavy
pounding of the rain has tapered off to something far more gentle. He follows
Eames back down the hall.
“Thanks for this,” Eames says as he tugs on his sodden shoes.
“Anytime,” Arthur says, and he kind of means it. He kind of really wants to
talk about ridiculous things like crappy horror movies and Lovecraft and
anaerobic stress with Eames all the damn time.
Arthur only lets himself watch for a moment as Eames jogs away before heading
back in to get ready for school.
When he gets home that afternoon, there’s a package sitting on his bed. There’s
no address, just his name, and he opens it up to find six old issues of Weird
Tales, all in pristine condition.
His stomach flips again when he notices the hand-written note tucked into the
top one.
Arthur,
Let me know when you finish these, I’ve got heaps more.
Don’t forget to practice your back handspring, and I’ll see you tomorrow
afternoon.
E.
*
Arthur watches Eames finish off his session with one of the other Spring
Exhibition students. He shifts from one foot to the other quickly, not wanting
to cool down too much from the group class.
Eames is patient with the girl, a little older than Arthur but just as new to
gymnastics. He makes her laugh more than once and Arthur feels unreasonable
jealousy curling up like an obscene cat in the pit of his stomach. It’s stupid,
stupid because of course Eames is friendly with all his students. That’s just
how he is.
He claps the girl on the shoulder as she slings her towel around her neck.
Still, Arthur wouldn’t mind thinking he was special somehow... different. It’s
a dangerous thought that plays havoc with his ability to act natural around
Eames. but it’d still be nice.
Eames smiles when he spots Arthur and Arthur thinks of the bundle of horror
magazines on his bedside table and the way Eames’s eyes never quite look like
that when he smiles at anyone else, and lets himself pretend a little.
“Did you get a chance to practice your routine?” Eames asks when Arthur joins
him on the spring floor.
“A little.” Arthur does a few stretches, just to be safe.
“Homework get in the way?”
Arthur hesitates, then lifts his heel to his ass. “Well. The homework would
have been fine. If I hadn’t been reading beforehand.”
The look Eames gives him seems torn, the smile not quite matching the frown in
his eyes. “If that’s my fault, I’ll have to withhold all further reading
material until after the exhibition.”
“Maybe you should wait and see my back handspring before you go making
ultimatums like that,” Arthur says, stretching out his hands.
This time the smile is genuine, all the way to the eyes. “Okay. Show me your
back handspring and then we’ll run your routine.”
For some reason it’s easier to perform well when he knows Eames is watching,
easier to nail the transitions and stick the landings. It’s like the thrill of
the moves is compounded by the thrill of knowing Eames’s attention is entirely
on him into one intense rush of adrenaline and …
It’s the third runthough, extra focus on tucking properly on the flips, when
sharp pain jolts through Arthur’s hip and he stumbles halfway across the floor.
“Fuck. Shit.” He doesn’t land on his ass, but it’s a close thing.
Eames is standing next to him in an instant, steadying hands on Arthur’s
shoulders. “Are you okay? I heard that pop from the sideline.”
“Yeah,” Arthur says, tentatively putting his weight back on the leg. The muscle
feels tense, out of place, but otherwise painless.
“Should have done a full warm up,” Eames says, frowning. “My fault.”
“It’s fine, I just got finished with Sarah and stretched and everything so--”
The words freeze in his throat when Eames’s hands drop to his hip, feeling out
the shape of the bone and the lie of the muscle with careful fingers.
“Does that hurt?” Eames asks, so close that Arthur could probably just tilt his
face up a little if he wanted to kiss him. And shit, those lips so close to his
face make him want to.
“No,” Arthur says instead.
Eames’s fingers shift down, to the lower curve of his hip. “This?”
“No.”
His hand catches on the hem of Arthur’s tank top when it shifts back up, warm
fingers grazing skin and skittering to a stop.
Arthur jolts, goosebumps running across the sensitive skin. Eames still isn’t
moving his hand, so Arthur just stares at his collarbones and tries to breathe.
It’s nothing, it’s purely professional and it’ll be over soon, filed away in
the Eames-related spank bank Arthur pretends he doesn’t have.
Except that it isn’t. Eames’s fingers flex, just enough for Arthur to feel the
soft drag of his calluses across the ridge of his hip, and there’s nothing
professional about the motion. It feels kind of like what Arthur imagines it
might be like if Eames held his hips down while he blows him, and shit, fuck,
he shouldn’t be thinking this, shouldn’t be getting hard when Eames is right
there, but Eames isn’t moving either and...
Arthur looks up and Eames is staring at him with wide eyes, lower lip clenched
between his teeth. It looks like want, and it makes Arthur’s stomach clench up
even more.
Somebody shouts at a friend on the other side of the gymnasium and the sound
makes Eames jump back so quickly that it’s like Arthur’s skin suddenly started
to burn him. “I’m sorry,” he says, breathless, raking a hand through his hair.
“Uh. I think you should rest that for the rest of the day and see a doctor on
Monday, just to be safe.”
“It’s okay,” Arthur says. “Seriously.” He’s not just talking about his hip,
either, and he wonders if Eames realises that.
“Seriously,” Eames mimics, still keeping a careful distance. “I’ll call your
mother to make sure.”
Hearing Eames talk about his mother makes Arthur feel suddenly very young,
which just makes standing there with a no-doubt-obvious hard on for his famous
gym instructor even more awkward. “Don’t. She’ll just freak out. I’ll go.”
“Bring me a certificate before next class,” Eames says. “And be careful walking
home. Maybe take a warm shower.”
Arthur doesn’t get a pat on the shoulder when he leaves, and he tries not to
let it bother him.
The first thing he does when he gets home is take the advised shower. Sure,
Eames probably didn’t mean for Arthur to jerk off until he comes with a
frustrated groan all over the tile, but it barely makes his hip twinge and he
fucking needed it after walking home with a semi and the image of Eames biting
his lip in his head.
Once he’s dry and dressed and marginally more in control Arthur flops on his
bed and toys with his phone. There’s a carousel of images in his mind: the
piece of paper with I AM SIXTEEN in red, the pile of Weird Tales, the look in
Eames’s eyes while he bit his lip. The last one passes by more frequently,
impossible, but it had definitely fucking happened.
Arthur takes a deep breath and flips his phone over.
I think he likes me
Ariadne’s reply is swift. who eames? i told u so
No like... like like
wtf r u srs?
He contemplates the next message, thumbs on the keys. As if saying it will make
it real, make it something he has to deal with. yeah. he kind of. touched me.
and gave me this look yknow
askdjjkh wat r u gonna do??
Arthur stares at the ceiling, remembering how Eames’s fingers felt on his bare
skin, before replying.
I don’t know
*
Arthur really doesn’t know, so it seems like a decent plan to just pretend
nothing has changed, like he doesn’t know that Eames maybe kind of wants to do
the kinds of things Arthur has tried so hard to keep tucked away in the back
corners of his mind. The kinds of things Arthur thinks about when the water
from the shower head is pounding hot against his back and it feels safe to fuck
his own hand, trying out how Eames’s name feels rolling off his tongue as he
comes.
He doesn’t usually have a shower before the morning jog but today it seems like
a good idea to get off at least once before going out to meet Eames. It helps,
a little, smoothing off the rough edges on his feelings to the point that he
feels like he can hold a conversation with Eames without wondering if his hands
will feel different on his hips when they fuck.
Not when, Arthur thinks, pulling on his sneakers. That’s fucking dangerous
territory right there. It’s not even an if. Or it shouldn’t be.
The thoughts are shoved aside while he stretches carefully on the front porch,
waiting for Eames to come by like he has for so many mornings now.
An hour later, Arthur tries not to be disappointed when he heads back inside.
*
“So what’d the doctor say?” Ariadne asks when Arthur slides into the cafeteria
seat next to her after using his free period to head down to the local clinic.
“All good,” Arthur says, stealing a chunk of pineapple from her fruit salad.
“Gotta rest it for a week, though.” Which is shit, because he needs to
practice, but he figures he can sneak some gentle floor work in during the
week.
“I don’t think that’s a bad thing. I mean seriously, have you see your hands
lately?”
Arthur looks at his hands, flexing them experimentally. They’re rough across
the base of his fingers, skin thickened and just a bit red. “It’s good. They’re
meant to get tougher.”
Ariadne shrugs. Then she glances around before leaning in close, conspiratory.
“And what about Eames? Have you talked to him yet?”
“He didn’t even show up for our jog,” Arthur says, and he knows he sounds
bitter but he doesn’t really care. “I don’t fucking know Ari.”
“You’ve said that a million times. You should try just going with it.”
Arthur steals another piece of pineapple. “Maybe I would, if there was anything
to go with.”
They sit in silence for a few minutes, the raucous noise of the cafeteria
wrapping around them. Then Ari perks up. “Hey, if you don’t have gym class on
Saturday, you should come to the double bill with me on Friday night.”
The change of topic is a welcome distraction. “What are they running?”
“I believe it falls squarely in the realm of ‘relevant to your interests’,” Ari
says. “Dagon and From Beyond.”
“You threw up the first time you saw Dagon,” Arthur points out.
“I dry retched a little, don’t fucking exaggerate. And I was thirteen, and you
did too.”
Arthur waves a hand in dismissal. “I’m in. You can pick me up yeah?”
“I’ll be at your place at about six, sure.”
Arthur grins, and feels a little bit of the tension that’s been sitting so
heavy on his shoulders bleed away. He’s going to enjoy his week away from gym
class. He’s going to go to study group, and work on his essays, and watch
shitty horror movies in a tacky theater with Ari, and he’s not going to think
about Eames.
He’s really not.
Of course, that plan goes up shit creek on Friday night.
“Arthur,” Ariadne hisses as they walk up the gritty sidewalk towards the box
office. “Is that--”
“Yeah,” Arthur says, swallowing hard. Because he’d recognise those shoulders
anywhere, even tucked away under a well-fitted t-shirt instead of the usual
sleeveless number.
They slow down. “Do you want to...?”
Every inch of calm Arthur’s managed to scrape together during the week is
rapidly dissolving under the pressure of jesus fucking christ those shoulders
and the knowledge that oh my fucking god he maybe wants to make out with me.
“I... shit. I don’t know.”
“You never do,” Ari whispers back. “Hey, Eames!” She shouts.
Arthur’s had plenty of moments when he wished the ground would just swallow him
whole. None of them come close to how he feels when Eames turns around at the
sound of his name, eyes focusing straight on Arthur even though he didn’t say
anything. A few seconds later, when they reach the box office, Eames is smiling
like nothing is wrong. “Hey. Should have known I’d see you here.”
Arthur wonders if Eames regrets coming. Or maybe if he did it on purpose. Maybe
he’s not avoiding Arthur afterall. “It was Ari’s idea.”
It’s like a lightbulb turning on in his head. It was Ari’s idea.
He’s going to kill her. If he survives this.
“I’ll grab our tickets,” she says brightly, as if she hadn’t anticipated this
possibility as soon as Arthur told her about Eames’s mutual appreciation for
Lovecraftian horror.
Okay. Act like nothing is wrong. Arthur can do this. “I didn’t see you on
Monday.”
Eames frowns, tucking his hands into his pockets. “You shouldn’t have gone
running on that leg.”
“I didn’t,” he says quickly. “I was just... I was going to take it easy. But I
didn’t go when you didn’t come.”
The expression on Eames’s face softens a bit. “Sorry I stood you up.”
There’s an implication to the phrasing that Arthur doesn’t get a chance to
think too hard about, because Ariadne comes back over with their tickets.
“God, you weren’t kidding,” she whispers, as they head inside, a few steps
behind Eames. “He’s practically fucking you with his eyes.”
Arthur’s not sure if he’d call it that, but he still doesn’t need Ari to point
out the way Eames looks at him. The hot, twisting sensation in his stomach does
that well enough.
The theater is old and dimly lit in a way that suggests nobody bothered to fix
the wiring in about fifty years, but it works for what they sell. Ariadne
chatters easily to Eames while they get drinks and snacks, but even while he’s
talking to her, Arthur keeps seeing Eames glance at him.
By some unspoken agreement they end up sitting together. Eames heads down the
row first, picking a prime spot in the middle of the theater. Arthur raises an
eyebrow at Ari. “I’m not sitting next to him for--”
Ariadne just keeps staring at him, until he sighs, and heads down to sit next
to Eames.
Maybe this won’t be so bad.
*
For the most part, it’s not. The gentle pressure of Eames’s knee next to his is
distracting, but not so distracting that he can’t enjoy the movie.
It’s during intermission when Ari’s phone goes off that things go off the
rails.
“Shit,” she says. “I gotta go. The cafe needs me tomorrow to open. Four a.m
starts are not my friend. Sorry Arthur.”
He shrugs. Sure, Dagon is probably his favourite of the two and it’s playing
second. But it’s no big deal, and--
“I can drop you home after.”
Arthur looks at Eames. “You don’t have to do that.”
“You should stay,” Ari says. “You guys live on the same street right? So it’s
not like Eames has to go out of his way, yeah?”
Eames nods like it’s nothing, like he’s not essentially saying they should stay
and sit through a movie together by themselves. That’s like a fucking date or
something.
“You’re cool then Arthur?”
He frowns in response to Ari’s wink. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be fine.”
She ruffles his hair. “I’ll see you tomorrow, kay.”
“Bye,” Arthur says.
The lights are going down again as Ariadne heads off, so at least he doesn’t
have to try and make more smalltalk.
He almost manages to forget Eames is even there, until their arms bump on the
armrest.
Eames’s little finger brushes against his, and it’s like everything narrows
down to one little bubble wrapped around them.
Arthur can hear him breathing, even over the ominous base of the movie. It
seems so fucking ridiculous, that Eames is breathing hard over him. But it’s
happening, just like their little fingers touching is happening.
Arthur’s eyes are fixed on the screen, but he’s not really paying any fucking
attention to it anymore. Every nerve is focused on Eames, how close he is, how
close they are to...
So slowly it almost hurts, Arthur turns his hand over. His knuckles graze the
edge of Eames’s hand, way less contact than they have when Eames is helping
position a stretch or correct form, but it’s different. Way different, because,
sure, Eames touching him in class is always a bit of a battle with
inappropriate thoughts, but this sends a jolt running up his arm that kicks his
heart into overdrive.
The urge to turn his head and look is almost overwhelming when Arthur feels
Eames’s little finger stroke his thumb tentatively, but he doesn’t. The moment
is too surreal, too easy to break. That little finger wraps around his thumb
and it’s like the whole world stops.
Arthur swallows hard as Eames’s hand drifts slowly across until he’s stroking
the curve of Arthur’s palm. It gets even harder to breath when those fingers
finally settle between his own, foreign and heavy and so perfect. Arthur curls
his fingers up, testing the feel of Eames’s knuckles under his fingertips.
There shouldn’t be anything exciting enough about fucking hand holding to have
his pulse racing like this; he’s sixteen, not twelve. But he glances down at
their fingers, tangled together on the threadbare pile of the armrest, and it’s
better than all the kisses he’s ever had. Which, fine, is only four or five,
but still.
It’s harder than it should be to drag in a breath when Arthur finally looks at
Eames. He’s staring at the screen just as hard as Arthur was, washed-out light
playing across his face, and he turns his head too fast for Arthur to look away
and pretend nothing is happening.
Eames’s eyes are almost black in the shifting light. They’re so fucking close
and Arthur’s heart is pounding a million miles a minute and he’s not sure if he
should lean in or let go or something else entirely. What he ends up doing is
tightening his hold on Eames’s hand and tilting his chin up, just a little,
just enough to be the silent invitation Eames is obviously waiting for. Barely
a second later, their lips are pressed together, soft, the faint taste of cola
on the curve of Eames’s lip when Arthur traces it with the tip of his tongue.
“God, Arthur,” Eames murmurs against his mouth, letting go of his hand and
twisting in his seat to get a better angle, and that’s it, it’s like every
measure of control is stripped away. Arthur barely has time to think he’s
fucking kissing me before Eames’s hands are in his hair, pulling him in as
close as the armrest will let him. It digs into Arthur’s side, sharp pain to
underscore the pleasure that hums just under his skin when Eames slips his
tongue into Arthur’s mouth.
He’s just getting into the rhythm of it, the gentle push and pull, when Eames
jerks away.
“Fuck,” he breathes, raking his fingers through his hair. “I... fuck. I
shouldn’t have... sorry.” He’s not even looking at Arthur anymore, and the
sudden rejection cuts like a knife through the pleasant haze of how Eames’s
mouth felt on his.
“It’s okay, I--”
“It’s not, Arthur. It’s really not.” Eames is leaning away from him, as close
to the opposite armrest as he can. “Shhh.”
Arthur opens his mouth, closes it again. Then he slumps down in his seat, heart
still pounding like it wants to break his ribs. Eames kissed him. He fucking
kissed him, and...
Arthur crosses his arms and tries to concentrate on the screen. He was wrong,
earlier. Nothing could beat this moment for how badly he wants the ground to
swallow him whole.
Awkward silence falls after the movie ends. Arthur feels like he should say
something, anything. Every time he tries, it’s like his tongue can’t form the
words.
The drive back to their street is short, but with the thick tension in the air
and the hard-on Arthur’s still nursing it’s a thing of torture.
Eames kills the engine a few houses down from Arthur’s. “Arthur,” he begins,
like his tongue is just as tied.
“Don’t worry,” Arthur says, finally finding his voice as the engine ticks. “I’m
not going to--”
“I know.” Eames’s fingers tense on the steering wheel. “But it can’t happen
again.”
Arthur nods and undoes his seatbelt.
“If the doctor said it’s okay, we can jog on Monday. Practice your back
handspring.”
The words hit hard, but Arthur’s not even sure how he feels. Mostly angry. A
bit stupid, for thinking a kiss might mean something. “I’ll see you on
Wednesday,” he says, every syllable as cold and deliberate as he can make it.
He bites his lip, pushing down the stupid feelings trying to burn him up from
the inside out, and gets out of the car.
It takes every ounce of his self-control not to slam the car door behind him.
*
Arthur tells himself he won’t think about Eames until Wednesday. It works about
as well as it has every time he’s told himself he won’t think about Eames since
the start of the year, but he makes a fucking good effort of it.
It’s surprisingly easy during the day. School is cranking into high gear and
Arthur spends more time on his homework and preparing study notes than he has
in months. He cleans his room, helps with the chores, and plays the perfectly
behaved teenage boy.
The way Eames’s tongue had felt pushing up against his is harder to forget late
at night when he crawls into bed. Nobody has ever kissed him like that, all
hot, demanding pressure. No matter how hard he tries to deny it, Arthur wants
more. When he’s lying there with his eyes closed, blankets kicked off to the
foot of the bed, it’s too easy to imagine what it would be like to let himself
bend to that pressure.
Arthur rubs a hand low across stomach when he starts getting hard. He should
stop thinking about it, about what Eames might demand if he could. Would he
want Arthur on his back, or on his hands and knees? Would he suck Arthur’s cock
with the same slick attention he gave Arthur’s mouth?
Within a few seconds Arthur is reaching under the bed for a handful of tissues,
dropping them on the bed before curling a hand around his cock.
He tries to keep his mind blank, but it’s pointless. It’s an old fantasy, Eames
between his legs sucking him off, but even though it’s just his hand there’s
still something more real about it now he knows what those lips really feel
like.
“Fuck,” he swears as he comes, hips jerking up off the bed.
Arthur wipes himself off before throwing the tissues angrily into the waste
basket and rolling over.
*
Eames makes himself easy to ignore on Wednesday by being busy on the other side
of the gym when Arthur’s class starts. That doesn’t mean it’s easy to not care
that Eames is right there, and Arthur wonders if he’s watching when his back
his turned.
Of course, because the universe hates Arthur with the kind of malice it only
ever reserves for sixteen year olds, Eames waits until they’re doing practice
exercises on the mushroom to wander over and check on the class.
Arthur steadfastly ignores the effect that voice has on the viscosity of his
guts and focuses on the feel of the apparatus under his hands, the soothing
rhythm of his own muscle and bone and heartbeat working in synch to keep him
steady.
His palms are catching too hard against the apparatus, too much friction making
the rhythm harder to maintain. But he just throws more weight behind the
motion, careless of the scrape and the sweat dripping down his arms. He’s not
going to stop while Eames is still there, while he’ll have to acknowledge his
fucking existence.
Arthur only manages one more turn before pain cuts across his hands, and he
stops with a hiss. When he looks, his palms are ripped just below his fingers,
callused white skin hanging roughly.
“Arthur, are you... ohhh,” Sarah says, looking at the raw pink skin. “You’ve
torn your calluses. Does it hurt too much? I can give you something for the
pain before we strap them up.”
He’s just about to tell her it’s fine, really... and it is, even though it
stings like a fucking bitch... when Eames steps closer. “I’ll handle it Sarah.
You keep going with the rest of the class.”
Arthur stares at the floor, wishing he could protest.
“Sure,” Sarah says, patting Arthur on the elbow. He’s not sure if he’d rather
have Eames touching him or not. “You’ll be alright?”
No. Not if he has to look Eames in the face without wanting to punch him or
shove his tongue down his throat. “Yeah, thanks.”
He heads to the little first aid room without bothering to see if Eames is
following, and sits down on the bench.
Eames looks angry when he walks in, closing the door behind him and striding
over to the cupboard. Arthur watches the way he moves as he pulls out a basic
first aid kit, so much fucking liquid grace in those thick limbs even when his
movements are sharp and harsh.
He pretends it’s not doing anything to him.
“You need to be more bloody careful,” Eames snaps, finally sitting down beside
Arthur and taking his left hand first. “You can tape calluses so they don’t
tear like this, but you have to do it early. You should have said something.”
His voice might be angry but his fingers are gentle, holding Arthur’s hand
steady while he wipes it clean and winds the bandage around it. It’s the first
time Eames has actually touched him since... “I didn’t think you cared.”
Eames sighs, and Arthur glances up. His expression has softened from angry into
something else, something Arthur can’t quite place.
“But I do, Arthur,” Eames says, fingers stroking the pulse of Arthur’s wrist
once before taping down the bandage. “I do, and that’s part of the problem.”
“You care, but you don’t want to touch me.” Arthur winces at the pressure
against the palm of his hand.
“I should never have touched you to begin with,” Eames says, brows furrowed in
concentration or anger or maybe both. “I made a mistake, Arthur. And I know you
like to think adults are infallible, but we’re not.”
Arthur tries to jerk his hand away, but Eames holds it firm. He clenches it
into a fist instead, ignoring the pain that streaks up his arm. “That’s fucking
bullshit. You think you’re taking advantage of some poor kid? You think I don’t
know what I want?”
Eames loosens his grip on Arthur’s wrist. “That’s exactly what—“
“I jerk off most nights thinking about you,” Arthur blurts, blood rushing to
his cheeks even as the words spill out.
“You... you shouldn’t be telling me this,” Eames says, letting go of Arthur’s
hand. He’s still sitting close enough for Arthur to smell though, close enough
to feel the warmth of his body.
“Why?” Fuck it, he’s already started, might as well make himself look like a
complete idiot while he’s at it. “Because if I tell you how badly I want you to
fuck me you won’t have an excuse anymore?”
“Arthur,” Eames snaps. “Jesus fucking Christ, you know why.” He rakes a hand
through his hair and licks his lips, leaving them wet in a way that goes
straight to Arthur’s cock. “I gave you enough credit to assume you’d
understand.”
Arthur looks away. Sure, he knows why. Technically. But he’s a month off
seventeen, one summer away from college, and why the fuck should it matter? “I
wouldn’t... I’m not going to fucking say anything,” he mutters.
Beside him, Eames sighs heavily. “I don’t doubt it.”
Electricity streaks up Arthur’s spine at the words. “So... .”
“I still... we can’t Arthur. We just can’t.”
If there wasn’t a gymnasium full of people just outside, Arthur would scream.
They want each other. Eames wants him. That fact alone is enough to drive him
to a raging hard on. That Eames can look at him and see someone worth fucking,
worth caring about, is just... fuck.
Eames picks up Arthur’s other hand, teasing the fingers open gently to check
the tear before securing the tail end of the bandage against the heel of
Arthur’s hand with his thumb. Arthur can feel the warmth of the contact, the
gentle deftness Eames uses to wind the fabric firmly around his hand, and it
just makes him feel worse.
“I’m sorry,” Eames says, as he rips off some tape to secure the bandage in
place. “You need to stay off this for at least a week, but you should still be
fine for the exhibition if you take it easy. Still come in and do what you
can.”
Arthur just nods, turning his hand back and forth. He bites his lip. “Eames?”
“Yeah?” He’s putting things away in the first aid kit, broad back turned
towards Arthur.
Arthur really, really wants to lick those shoulder blades.
Instead he waits until Eames turns back to face him, eyebrow raised. Then,
before the raw feeling writhing about in his stomach can solidify into anything
resembling fear, Arthur leans up and kisses him.
He pulls away before Eames can react, licking his lips and watching the way
Eames’s pupils dilate at the sight.There’s a brief moment where it seems like
Eames might reach out and touch him, but it’s gone before Arthur can really
enjoy it.
“Don’t do that again.” Eames’s voice is rough, like he’s not sure he means it.
“I won’t,” Arthur says softly. He wants to lick his lips again, try to taste
Eames the same way he tasted him in the movie theatre.
Even as Arthur bends to grab his bag carefully and head out, he already knows
the words were a lie.
*
“Try this one on, and tell me the truth.”
Arthur takes the suit jacket Ariadne is shoving towards him with a sigh.
“Nothing happened Ari, seriously.” He slips the jacket on over his t-shirt,
turning to check the fit through the shoulders in the store mirrors.
“Uh-huh. And that’s why you went from physically incapable of shutting up about
Eames to not mentioning him since we went to the movies. That one’s better, by
the way.”
It seemed like an easy plan in theory, sticking to his guns and not actually
telling anybody what happened. Like he told Eames he wouldn’t. In practice,
with Ariadne worrying at him like a dog with a particularly meaty bone, it’s
actually really fucking hard. “Are we done?” he snaps, shrugging the jacket
off.
“You are,” she says, taking the jacket and putting it back on its hanger. “I
still need shoes to match my dress.”
“But those shoes you wore to try it on match fine.”
Ariadne sighs at him. “It’s prom, Arthur. If I can’t use that as an excuse to
buy new shoes, there is no justice in the world. You are the worst gay friend
ever.”
“I like boys, not shopping.” Arthur takes the hanger and slings the jacket over
his shoulder.
The look Ariadne gives him is such a plaintive mix of so tell me about the boy
you like in particular and jesus fucking christ Arthur, we both know I already
know you’re lying so just spill that he glances around the section of the store
before leaning down closer to her level. “Okay, fine. He kissed me, alright. In
the cinema.”
Ariadne gapes at him like she’s actually surprised. “He kissed you?”
“Kissing does tend to require two people, Ari.”
“Yeah, but... I figured you’d put some kind of awkward, unsubtle move on him
and he’d follow along. Not... wow. Was it good?”
Just remembering it is enough to kick Arthur’s heartbeat up a notch. “It was
great up until the part where it’s a mistake and he refuses to touch me again.”
He shrugs. “Which I mean, I get. But school will be finished soon and I’m going
to college and he’s probably going back to competition and... yeah.”
“Tell him you need to lose your v-card before you go to college or you’ll be a
social pariah.”
“That isn’t true,” Arthur says, frowning.
“It’s very true, on both counts.”
“Hypocrite. Unless you’re telling me you’ve...”
Ariadne feigns interest in the tie display to her left. “I’m a girl. Different
rules apply.”
“Sure they do.” Really, he’d be happy with making out and some heavy petting.
As much as he wants Eames to fuck him... Arthur tamps down on that train of
thought, because this is not the time or place for a fantasy-induced hard-on.
“I’ll kiss him again if I get a chance.”
“Don’t you see him every morning?”
Ariadne starts heading towards the front of the store, and Arthur follows. “Not
recently.” Eames hasn’t shown up for a morning run since they kissed. Not that
Arthur can blame him, because being pressed up against each other for those
playground stretches would probably be exponentially more unbearable now.
“Clearly this calls for extreme measures in drawing his attention to how
fuckable your ass is.”
“One, I’m kind of concerned about the idea of you thinking about how fuckable
my ass is. Two, if the way I bend in class isn’t enough to get his attention,
nothing will.”
“We’ll see about that. I doubt even bending over is as impressive as your ass
will be by the time I find it the right pair of jeans.”
*
While most of the school is hyped up over prom, Arthur’s busy agonising over
essays and worrying whether he has enough notes to prep properly for exams.
It’s not that he doesn’t care... he’s happy to go with Ari and there’s the
party at Dom’s afterwards that’ll be fun. But it’s just another one of the
things that faded into the background between gymnastics and finals and Eames,
and it feels like it’s all snuck up out of nowhere to sucker punch him. The
spring exhibition on the weekend, prom the weekend after, exams and grad only a
couple of weeks after that. Sometime in the middle is his birthday, too, but
even that seems almost insignificant in the face of everything else happening.
Including maybe, just maybe, losing his virginity to the guy he’s been jerking
off to forever.
Even though that still seems unlikely, as Arthur stands on the footpath outside
his house in the predawn, bouncing from one foot to the other to warm up while
he waits. Eames still isn’t showing up for morning runs. He hasn’t even been
there every time Arthur goes to the gym to get in all the last minute polish on
his routine that he can.
Arthur sighs, tucking his earbuds in before setting off at a light jog. It’s
weird, how much he misses the company. Not even the perving, on tank tops with
holes that show off his ribs or the way it clings to the muscles of his back
when it gets damp, but just the company. Talking about sport and crappy horror
movies and why the new V is terrible in comparison to the original.
He finishes his run in half the time it used to take when Eames came with him,
barely even stopping to stretch and practice hand springs. When he gets back to
his front gate, he sees the package sticking out of the mailbox. There’s
nothing on the front but Arthur, and he can’t help the way he reads it in
Eames’s voice.
Inside is another bundle of Weird Tales, but no note. Nothing.
Arthur looks up and down the street, but Eames isn’t in sight. He kicks the
gate open with his foot.
Once he’s showered and clean and dressed for school, he opens up a blank email
and stares at it for a good fifteen minutes before typing nothing but Thanks
and hitting the send button.
*
Arthur’s stomach is a tense ball of nerves and excitement on Saturday morning.
He wriggles into the jeans Ari helped pick out last weekend, and he has to
grudgingly admit that they do things for his ass that he wasn’t aware jeans
were capable of doing. There’s a text on his phone that says wear ur cthlu
shirt and he almost decides against it, because surely it’s possible to be
wearing too many tight clothes. He tries it on with the jeans anyway, and in
the end he figures he might as well go all out.
His mother gives him an odd look when he goes downstairs, but if she’s thinking
about his admittedly provocative clothing choices, she’s nice enough to not say
anything that might end up awkward for the both of them. “Do you want me to
give you a lift?” she asks.
“No, thanks. I’ll walk.” Arthur slings his backpack over one shoulder.
“You’re not even having breakfast?”
“I’ve got some food in my bag and I’ll get lunch later with the others.”
His mom makes a low noise of disapproval. “Well, okay then. I’ll be there at
eleven.”
“Yeah. Bye, mom.”
He’s pretty sure he couldn’t eat anything even if he wanted to, not with his
stomach churning the way it is. The walk is enough to take the edge off, but it
all comes rushing back when he walks into the gymnasium and Eames is right
there, all broad muscle and clean shaven and looking every inch like the
gymnast Arthur always fantasised about.
Arthur swallows, so conscious of his skin under the tight stretch of his
clothes, and plasters on a smile as he goes to say hi to the other beginners
over near the mirrors.
He almost forgets Eames is even in the room until he bends over to put his bag
on the floor and tuck his ipod away. As he starts to straighten up he notices
Eames’s reflection in the mirror, his eyes fixed on the arch of Arthur’s spine.
Or maybe the curve of his ass. The point is, Eames is staring at him like he
wants to fuck him into next weekend, and it’s enough to give Arthur goosebumps.
The look is gone fast enough. But it sticks with Arthur once he stands up, an
extra frisson of excitement layered over all the other emotion twisting in his
belly.
*
All thoughts of being fucked into next weekend, of being fucked at all, are
pretty quickly overtaken by the rush of last minute prep. There are plenty of
nervous faces, but Arthur takes it in stride as Sarah herds the beginners
towards the change rooms. He grew up with this, being toted around to his
sister’s competitions, playing with tape and chalk and watching wide-eyed from
the sidelines. It’s not the same now, with the thread of anxious excitement
undercutting the familiarity, but it’s close enough.
Somewhere between getting into his gym gear and rummaging in his bag for his
tape to the excited squeals of the youngest boys, it really hits Arthur that
soon, far too soon, he’s going to be out on that spring floor with nothing
between him and an expectant audience. The thought makes the bottom drop out of
his stomach, and for the first time he thinks maybe he could have spent more
time concentrating on learning to control his tricks and less time
concentrating on Eames’s ass.
He’s sitting outside the change room, running through his routine in his head
meticulously while he tapes his hands, when his bag vibrates by his foot.
Of course it’s Ari.
i bet he cldnt resist u & draggd u off to make out in a broom cupboard
Arthur rolls his eyes as he replies.
you’re an idiot. and no, he didn’t. also i am trying to concentrate on making
sure i wont choke out there today, jysk
eames is obvs blind then my jeans skills are flawlss. u’ll be fine. im sure
he’ll feel u up after
“All set for your run through then?”
Arthur starts at the familiar voice behind him, mashing the close button with
his thumb. His heart is beating so hard it hurts when he turns to smile at
Sarah, guilt hammering at his ribs. “Yeah, just finishing up my hands.”
If she saw any of the incriminating text, she doesn’t show it. “Show me. How
are your calluses feeling?”
He throws his phone back into his back and holds out his hands. “Better.”
Sarah nods, distracted, as she checks the strapping. “Good. Eames said to make
sure you tape them properly today. Don’t want any repeats of the other week.
Arthur stares at his hands after she lets go. It’s part of Eames’s charm as a
teacher, that he gives equal thought and attention everyone. Arthur’s not
special in that respect, he tells himself, and tries not to feel too warm and
hopeful inside.
Sarah helps distract him. “Head on out, Mark’s going to run you all through
where you need to be.”
It isn’t possible to take a deep enough breath to calm all the nerves in
Arthur’s stomach, but he tries anyway and heads to the floor.
*
The walk-through of the running order and positioning goes quickly, and it
feels like no time at all before they’re all relegated to the holding area
while the sounds of people… of the audience… start drifting through the
building. It’s the waiting that’s the worst, the standing around with time to
think about all the ways it’s possible to fuck up and end up looking like a
complete idiot in front of everyone. In front of Eames.
The second possibility is definitely the most unpleasant one.
Arthur checks his phone again while he waits and tries not to chew his nails.
Ariadne’s sent another text... ur mom is more interested in seein eames than
seein u, and he deletes it without replying. The last thing he wants is to
think about Eames and his mother in the same sentence.
He’s fairly late in the line-up, but it’s still not long before Arthur’s
shifting into position to wait for his call. It’s a fairly narrow hallway from
the holding area past the bleachers to the gym floor, and he chalks his hands
again to combat the sudden sweatiness of his palms before leaning against the
cool hallway wall. He tries to tune out the sound of the crowd, the chatter of
the other gymnasts, the fact Eames might be watching.
It’s a lot easier said than done.
“Ready?”
Arthur swallows hard when he hears Eames’s voice, straightening up a little
before looking to his left. “Yeah,” he manages to get out, struggling to drag
his brain back up from his cock. It feels like a losing battle though, with
Eames standing there in skin-tight spandex that clings to every perfectly
placed slab of muscle in his body.
He very, very carefully focuses on Eames’s face.
“Are you nervous?”
“No,” Arthur lies, looking away down the hall to the bright lights of the gym
floor.
“You’re going to be fine,” Eames says quietly, stepping a bit closer until
Arthur can feel the warmth of one thick bicep brushing up against his shoulder.
“It gets easier, too.”
Arthur’s not really thinking about performing when Eames says that. He’s
wondering whether stupid things like lust and love ever get easier, not that he
loves Eames, he’s not naive enough to think that, but still. He feels something
alongside the raging desire to have Eames fuck him into a mattress, and
feelings are fucked up. “I hope it does.”
“Trust me. It does.” He touches Arthur’s shoulder, and the brief warmth of his
fingers is almost more than Arthur can take. It’s bad enough that Eames is
standing so close, smelling so good, looking like that; wanting him right back
but too much of a fucking nice guy to just give in to what they both want.
Arthur shivers.
“Show me your hands,” Eames says softly.
For a second Arthur considers pretending he didn’t hear. He’s too wound up on
nerves and adrenaline, they’re too exposed to anyone who glances down the
hallway.
“Please, Arthur.”
Arthur turns a little and holds out his hands, palms up, stomach clenching at
the soft rumble of his own name.
Eames slips his own under them, supporting Arthur’s hands gently. They’re
bigger, broader, easily cradling the curve of Arthur’s fingers in the palms of
his hands with room to spare. Arthur bites his lip, memories of their hands on
the theatre armrest darting through his head along with the goosebumps running
up his forearms.
“I don’t want you tearing anything again,” Eames says, and it’s a ruse, it has
to be, because there’s nothing professional about the way the tips of his
fingers are brushing against the backs of Arthur’s wrists.
“Sarah already checked everything.” It’s harder than it should be to keep his
voice steady, and he resists the urge to glance around. He figures it’d just
make him look guilty.
Eames actually does double check, blunt fingers warm and surprisingly dexterous
as they test the tension and gaps in the tape. “I liked your shirt this
morning,” he says.
Arthur barely even remembers what he was wearing at first, distracted by the
pressure of Eames’s hands on his. “Oh. Thanks.”
Surely Eames should be finished by now. There are too many people around to be
standing this close, with this much tension strung between them. Finally, Eames
lets go of his hands. “Good luck.”
It’s a stupid thing to ask, but as the warmth from Eames’s skin starts to seep
out of his own, Arthur asks anyway. “Will you be watching?”
“Yes.”
Eames face is mostly neutral as he says it, but the slight smile is enough for
Arthur.
*
From the sidelines, there’s only a few seconds between a gymnast being
announced and a gymnast beginning their routine. Definitely less than a minute.
Standing there on the floor in front of the crowd, Arthur feels like it takes
forever.
He forces himself to relax. The routine is nothing he hasn’t done hundreds of
times since the start of the year, nothing he can’t pull off. Then he spots
Eames beside the bleachers, arms crossed, watching so intently that it’s like
he wants to stare right through him, and uncertainty wells up inside him again.
Get a fucking grip, Arthur, he thinks, and smiles, and lifts his arms into the
starting position.
In contrast, it feels like the routine is over before Arthur really has a
chance to think too hard about it. There’s nothing but the points of contact
between him and the floor, the rush of blood in his ears, and he makes the
first couple of passes easily.
Arthur brushes his hair out of his eyes and grins as he lines up for the final
pass. Everything else aside, Eames aside, the buzz alone makes all the effort
worth it.
Eames is still there, though, and its impossible not to think about it once he
starts. He doesn’t really care what anyone else thinks of him, what mistakes
they notice, so long as Eames is paying attention to how perfectly he tucks and
extends through each back handspring.
Arthur’s hands hit the floor and for that split second he glances across the
floor, to where Eames is standing. It’s enough to throw him off center going
into the last series of flips and he only gets an instant of oh shit before he
hits the ground just outside the corner of the spring floor, hard enough to
knock the air out of his lungs.
It’s a lot easier to pull himself up knowing that Eames is watching. The crowd
is cheering as he straightens up and waves sheepishly, but when he looks over
at Eames again their eyes only meet for a moment before Eames turns and walks
away.
*
Ari sneaks down to the front rows once all the beginners have finished their
routines and come out to watch the more advanced student.
“Hot,” she says, flicking his shoulder strap as she slides into the empty seat
beside him.
“Fuck you,” he says amiably.
“I mean it. I am genuinely surprised you have failed to get laid since you
started this thing.”
Arthur shoves her in the shoulder, because the last thing he needs to be
thinking about now, right before seeing Eames perform up close and personal, is
how badly he wants him.
Of course telling himself he’s not going to think about Eames in anything but a
professional manner is about as useful as telling himself not to think about
elephants would be, and he glares at Ari as the first of the advanced students
takes the floor. Normally he enjoys watching gymnastics with her. Now, he can’t
really appreciate the gymnast’s flawless flips or interesting skill choices,
because his head is too full of thoughts of Eames’s hands and exactly how
Eames’s lips feel when they part against his.
“Have you seen Eames’s routine yet?” Ariadne asks in the round of applause for
the second last gymnast.
“No,” Arthur says, tapping his foot. He doesn’t even know why he feels so on
edge. It’s not like he’s never seen Eames perform before. Seriously, he’s done
a whole lot more than watch Eames now, but he still feels like he imagines he
would have if he’d gotten the chance to see Eames perform without having met
him. It’s a nervous sort of excitement chewing at the edges of his awareness,
intensified by the very real fact that he wants Eames to do filthy things to
him.
Ari pushes down firmly on Arthur’s bouncing knee. “You’re doing a really shit
job of playing it cool, you know. Just breathe.”
Arthur thinks about snapping at her for half a second, before drawing in a deep
breath instead just as the announcer calls Eames’s name and the crowd cheers.
Everything else in the room fades into inconsequentiality when Eames walks
across the floor. He’s so fucking perfect it hurts and he hasn’t even thrown a
trick yet, and a sudden burst of pride leaps in Arthur’s chest.
He wants me.
It’s true that Eames isn’t always the most technically flawless or graceful
gymnast. What he lacks in mechanics he makes up for with pure strength and a
stage presence bigger than both his biceps combined. Seeing all that in person,
sleek muscle and powerful thighs and a sense of balance second to none, Arthur
remembers why he started watching Eames to being with. It feels like forever
ago, before morning jogs and kisses in movie theatres, when Eames was this
untouchable fantasy.
Arthur swallows hard. After all this there’ll be pizza and plenty of time to
talk to Eames once the audience has cleared off if he wants to, even if the
touching part is still up in the air.
Ariadne gives him a knowing look as he watches Eames leave, and Arthur really
can’t decide if this is the best or worst year of his life so far.
*
It’s heading into the late afternoon by the time everything is packed away and
everyone is showered and changed back into street clothes, sunlight slanting
across the gym floor. Everyone’s broken off into groups again, commandeering
pizza boxes and spots on the bleachers that won’t be taken down until Monday.
“That was a pretty decent wipeout, Arthur,” Rebecca says, shoving the pizza
down the bench.
“I am still so pissed I missed it.”
Arthur shrugs and grabs a slice, sprawling back against the benches. “It wasn’t
that impressive. Impressive ends in broken bones nine times out of ten.”
“True. I’d still be fucking mortified if I’d done it, though.”
“World Championship qualifiers, my second year in, I missed a beat and took a
fall from the bars. It happens to the best of us.”
They all go quiet when Eames’s voice cuts in, and Arthur glances up. Eames is
looking at him, and it isn’t until Arthur notices the way Eames’s eyes keep
flicking down that he realises leaning back has let his shirt ride up to expose
a tiny strip of his stomach.
He doesn’t move to pull it down.
“Arthur, mind if I borrow you for a bit?” Eames says, finally focusing on
Arthur’s face. “We do need to have a talk about that landing.”
The hush of the others reminds Arthur of the bated silence whenever someone is
about to get chewed out in class, and his stomach drops. “Okay.” He scrambles
up, tugging his shirt down as he does, and follows Eames from the bleachers
across the floor to the offices.
Eames doesn’t even look back to see if Arthur’s behind him, and it’s harder
than it should be not to pay attention to the tight stretch of Eames’s shirt
across his shoulders considering he’s about to give Arthur a dressing down.
Sure, he deserves it, he fucked up, and he’s really not looking forward to it.
The office door is already open and Eames waits, gesturing Arthur in before
closing the door behind them.
It’s so quiet Arthur can hear his own heart pounding as he tries to stay
nonchalant, leaning back against the desk. Of course, nonchalance is fucking
impossible wherever Eames is concerned, especially when he closes the space
between them in two long steps. There’s nothing indecent about the distance;
there’s still a good foot between them. But it’s close enough to let Eames
crowd him, all broad chest and those annoying couple of inches, and Arthur
licks his lips nervously.
“You can’t let me distract you like that,” Eames says, crossing his arms. “You
could have broken something. Like your neck.”
“Maybe I just fucked up.”
“You did. But don’t act like we don’t both know why. Part of being an adult is
owning your culpability, Arthur.”
Arthur clenches his fingers against the desk, glaring up at Eames like he’s not
twice his size. “It’s not like it matters anyway, because you’ll be leaving for
competition season and I’ll be--”
“No, I won’t.” Eames lets out a sharp breath and rakes his fingers through his
hair. “Last year was my last competitive season. This is my full time now.”
“But...” That means you’re going to stay here.
Eames ignores him. “So you see, you have got to stop this. All this.” He
gestures vaguely.
“All what?” Arthur says softly. There’s enough tension in Eames’s neck for
Arthur to see the thick ridges of his tendons.
This isn’t the dressing down he expected.
Eames presses a finger against Arthur’s chest, leaning close. “For fuck’s sake
Arthur, don’t play coy now. You think I don’t notice?”
The shadows are long enough to throw darkness across half of Eames’s face, and
Arthur can’t help the way he shivers at the touch of Eames’s breath on his
lips. “I don’t know.”
“Well, I notice. I noticed when you were still trying to hide it. Is that what
you want to hear?” He flattens his hand against Arthur’s chest, fingers splayed
over his breastbone. “You want me to tell you that just before, when you were
sitting there with your stomach showing, I wanted to tug your jeans down and
lick your hipbones so badly that it’s still killing me?”
Arthur bites his lip, but it’s not enough to stop the way his knees suddenly
feel like they can’t hold him up.
“Because I did,” Eames says, breathing hard. “So don’t act like you don’t know
what I’m talking about, because you’re smarter than that.” His fingers shift,
trailing up Arthur’s throat and curling under his chin. “You have no fucking
idea what you do to me, Arthur.”
Those thick fingers are resting against his pulse, and Arthur swallows just to
feel the pressure. “I do. Because you do it to me, too.”
“Fuck,” Eames growls out, and it’s the only warning Arthur gets before Eames is
kissing him.
There’s nothing between them this time, no inconvenient armrest to stop them
from pressing together. Eames’s hands skim down along Arthur’s ribs and tighten
on his hips, thumbs pressing into the soft skin of his belly.
Arthur sucks in a breath when Eames nudges him back harder against the desk,
lifting him just enough to perch on the edge. Just like that the couple of
inches between them are gone. Eames’s breath is warm on Arthur’s mouth as they
bump noses for a second, dragging in air while they can, before Eames cradles
the back of Arthur’s head and pulls him forward.
Nobody’s ever kissed him like this before, pressing in hot and close and
spreading his legs with their thighs. It’s got to be a dream, another fucking
dream like the one that had ended in sticky boxers and an early morning call to
Ariadne.
Except this time there’s the narrow edge of the desk digging into the backs of
his thighs and the scrape of Eames’s stubble, and it’s so desperate and real
Arthur can barely breathe, bucking his hips up against the heat of Eames’s
body.
“Oh, fuck,” he whispers against Eames’s mouth, shuddering at the friction as
Eames grinds closer.
“I want to,” Eames mutters back and licks along Arthur’s lip, dropping a hand
to his thigh and dragging him in closer, close enough for Arthur to feel how
hard he is.
It should be nothing. He can barely even get off rubbing himself through his
boxers, so Eames grinding on him through jeans shouldn’t have him tense and
gasping and so fucking close to coming. But he is, and he arches into it.
“Eames,” he says, tilting his head back a little to let Eames mouth at his
neck, wet kisses with an occasional scrape of teeth. The hand on his thigh
drags higher at the same time, smoothing up over the curve if his ass to slip
under the back of his shirt.
Arthur can’t even fit his hand halfway around Eames’s bicep to steady himself
and it’s that thought, so much fucking muscle between his legs and pressed up
against him, that has his thighs shaking. “Fuck, Eames, I’m going to—“
But rather than press in closer and give him the last bit of pressure he needs,
Eames jerks away. Arthur blinks up at him, cold and desperate and fuck, it’s so
hard not to just pop the button on his jeans and finish himself off.
He digs his nails into the desk and tries to breathe properly as Eames scrubs
his hands across his face.
“No,” Eames says finally, voice still low enough to do stupid things to
Arthur’s insides.
“No, what?” Arthur chokes out.
Eames stares at him for a long moment. Arthur feels pinned down by the look
just as easily as he was pinned down by Eames’s body a few seconds ago.
“No, not like this.”
He holds out his hand and Arthur just looks at it, confusion twisted up with
the arousal still tugging low in his belly. “What?”
Eames helps him up off the desk but doesn’t let go of his hand. “If... if this
is going to happen, it’s not happening like this. Not here, not now.” He
brushes Arthur’s hair away from his eyes, fingertips warm on his skin.
Arthur’s still dazed, too hot, and it takes a few seconds for exactly what
Eames is saying to sink in.
“You should go now anyway,” Eames continues, still out of breath at the edges
as he walks over to the door. He hesitates. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?”
Arthur blinks again. He has to be dreaming. But he’s not, everything solid and
almost too real as he walks towards the door. He stops by Eames just long
enough to let himself touch his hand, a soft brush of fingertips across
knuckles, but it’s just as real as the edge of the desk and the rasp of Eames’s
stubble had been a few minutes before.
“Okay.”
*
As much as Arthur would like to spend most of his time wondering when Eames is
going to talk to him, there are plenty of other things that manage to occupy
him. He even skips gym class on Wednesday, because he’s mature enough to put
his final exams before the urges of his dick.
That doesn’t mean he’s above jerking off when the formulas in his calculus
textbook turn into nothing but an incomprehensible mess. It’s better now that
he doesn’t feel bad about taking his time and pretending it’s Eames’s hands on
his skin. But then he checks his email, and his phone, and the gnawing
uncertainty comes creeping back when there’s still no word from Eames.
“Maybe he’s changed his mind,” he says on Friday night, tossing a scrunched up
ball of paper into the air above his head.
“Unlikely.”
Arthur glances over from the bed to where Ariadne is swinging on his desk
chair. “It’s been a whole week. There can’t be any other reason.”
Ariadne sighs. “I told you from the start he was totally into you. And now you
tell me he made out with you on a desk and said he’d call. I think he’s going
to.”
Arthur throws the paper again, ignoring the fact that fifteen minutes ago it
was a bio revision sheet. “Well. He’d email, anyway. If he was going to.”
“Would he?” The sharp sound of Ari’s typing makes Arthur look over at his desk
again.
“What are you--”
“Hey, there’s an email from him here now,” she says, still rocking on the
chair.
Arthur tries to pretend the prospect alone doesn’t make his stomach tie itself
in knots. “Liar.”
“I’m not kidding, here... ‘How badly did you--”
If she’s fucking with him Arthur is going to kill her. He jumps up, leaning
over her shoulder to look at the screen .
How badly did you want to go to your prom afterparty?
There’s nothing else, not that there needs to be. “Ari, what does that say.”
She looks up at him. “That says you have somewhere far better to be next Friday
night than Dom’s party.”
So much for keeping his brain out of his pants.
*
“Arthur! Ariadne’s here!” Arthur’s mother calls from the kitchen
He takes another few seconds to get his tie straight before stepping back from
the mirror and staring himself in the face.
It’s not like Eames even said anything about what was going to happen. Maybe he
doesn’t mean they’re going to have sex at all. The air still feels too thick
with the implication that they will, and Arthur takes a few seconds to just
breathe before he heads down stairs.
Ariadne’s standing at the bottom of the stairs in her red dress, skirt flaring
out into a pretty A-line, and Arthur grins at her. “You look pretty good.”
“You don’t scrub up so bad yourself,” she says. “Did you sort out the plans
for--”
“Don’t move for a second,” Arthur’s mom says. “I’ll take a picture of you both
there on the stairs.”
They pose long enough to satisfy his mother, shoulders bumping as Arthur loops
an arm around Ariadne’s waist.
“I was saying,” Ari says softly after his mother goes back into the kitchen,
“did you sort out the plans for after?”
Arthur nods. He’s deleted the emails of course, he’s not stupid, but he’s
memorised each one anyway. “Yeah. Any time is fine, if you can just drop me off
on the way.”
“So you’re skipping prom?” Ariadne pokes him in the ribs.
The thought hadn’t actually occurred to him. It’s really fucking tempting too,
to say yes, to skip all the stuff between and get right to the part where he’s
with Eames. “Nah. Figure I better at least show up. Besides,” he offers her his
arm. “Who’s going to dance with you if I don’t?”
“You’re an asshole,” Ariadne says affectionately, curling her hand over his
elbow. “Are you ready?”
Arthur’s not entirely sure she’s only talking about leaving for the
prom.“Yeah,” he says. “I’m ready.”
*
The first time Arthur checks his watch is at ten thirty, which is a lot later
than he thought it’d be. He’s managed not to step on any toes, which Ariadne
would probably say is a minor miracle in and of itself, and it’s been a pretty
good time all things considered.
He leans against the wall and checks his watch again. The music feels almost
too loud now, and he doesn’t notice Ari walking up beside him until she leans
her head on his shoulder. “You look like you’re about to die,” she says.
“Well, I don’t feel like I’m about to die.” Arthur fiddles with his tie.
“Like you have somewhere better to be, then.”
Arthur laughs, a tense sound buried under the beat of the music. “Yeah.”
“You wanna get going? Dom was just saying he’s going to be going home to get
changed and finish setting up soon anyway.”
“No rush,” Arthur says, trying not to think about big hands on his hips or the
scrape of stubble against his jaw.
“I’ll just grab my stuff. Don’t go anywhere.”
She ducks away into the crowd. Arthur checks his watch again, and tries harder
not to look conspicuous.
*
They pull up a house down from Eames’s and Ariadne kills the engine. The street
is silent, streetlight flickering, and Arthur curls his fingers against the
smooth fabric of his suit pants.
"Are you okay?" Ariadne looks over at him. "You can just come to the party if
you want, you know."
Arthur shakes his head, sucking in a breath to try to calm the anxious tension
clawing at the pit of his stomach. "No, I want to do this." He does. He really,
really does, but somehow that doesn't make the prospect of having sex, with
Eames, any less stomach churning.
"Well, I'm not drinking, so you can call me if you need to. I'll come get you."
Ariadne grabs her purse from the dashboard and opens it with a snap. "Here,"
she says, rummaging in it for a second before reaching over and tucking two
condoms into Arthur's breast pocket. "The school nurse was giving these out to
all the girls this week, but you need them a lot more than I do."
Warmth creeps up Arthur's neck. "I'm sure I'll be fine."
Ariadne rests a hand on his shoulder, small fingers brushing over the curve of
his arm. "You be careful, okay?"
Arthur nods. "I will."
Ariadne leans in close and kisses him on the cheek, warm breath fanning his
cheek. "Go on then. Go get laid. Someone in this car right now might as well."
*
There's nothing particularly telling about Eames’s front porch. The light in
the kitchen is on, but Arthur still hesitates with his knuckles on the smooth
grain of the door for a few seconds before knocking.
The door swings open and in that instant Arthur has never been more sure about
what he wants. Eames smiles softly at him, black t-shirt clinging to his chest
and straining against his biceps, and the anxious tension that's been lurking
in Arthur's stomach for most of the week morphs into something hungrier, more
certain.
"Hi," he says, not even caring that he's staring because now, finally, he can
stare and there's no reason why he can't.
Eames steps back, holding the door open. "Hi. How was prom?"
It's saying something that Eames’s bulk makes stepping through the doorway
without touching him impossible. They barely brush, Arthur's shoulder against
Eames’s chest, but the contact is more than enough to set off the memory of
being pressed down onto that desk by the heavy breadth of Eames’s body.
Arthur shivers. "Good, I guess. It was pretty fun."
Eames locks the door behind them. "I was just making tea, would you like some?"
For a second he thinks about saying no, even though his throat is drier than it
has been all night. Then he figures drinking tea will be easier than trying to
act cool when he really has no fucking idea what to say. “Yeah, thanks.”
He follows Eames through to the kitchen. It’s pretty similar to his own house,
the same kind of layout all the houses on their block had ended up with, a
sense of familiarity that makes it easier to relax. Arthur leans against the
counter as Eames moves about the kitchen, and resists the urge to fiddle with
his cufflinks.
“Black, white?” Eames asks.
“White,” Arthur says.
Eames pours from the steaming kettle with deft hands and stops by the fridge to
add milk before returning to the counter and handing Arthur the teacup. His
fingers linger well after Arthur’s got his hands around the cup, chalk-rough
against the backs of Arthur’s hands.
Soon he’ll know what those hands feel like sliding up his inner thighs,
pressing his hips down, wrapping around his...
Arthur bites his lip. “Thanks.”
“You know, Arthur,” Eames says softly, once he’s taken a sip of his tea. “We
don’t have to do anything tonight if you don’t want to. I downloaded a few
Stuart Gordon movies and there are leftovers from dinner. We can--”
“No,” Arthur says quickly, and he wonders if he really looks that nervous.
Fuck. So much for playing it cool. He sets down the teacup and steps closer to
Eames, heart pounding as he reaches out and splays a hand against the broad
warmth of Eames’s chest. Arthur can feel the pulse beneath his fingers and it’s
fast, just as fast as his is, and knowing that Eames is just as strung out is
almost too much to take. “I want this,” he says, looking up at Eames. “I want
you to fuck me.”
It’s Eames’s turn to bite his lip. “Are you sure?”
Beneath all the uncertainty and the nerves and the desperation churning just
under his skin, the only thing Arthur is absolutely sure of is how badly he
wants Eames to strip him naked and fuck him like he means it. “Really, really
sure.”
He’s expecting Eames to grab him like he did in the office, growl into his
mouth, maybe push him up against the counter until he’s ten seconds away from
coming in his pants again. But Eames doesn’t. Instead he slips his hands inside
Arthur’s suit jacket, skimming down over his ribs until they settle heavy and
warm at his hips.
Arthur tries to remember how to breath as Eames leans down slowly,
deliberately, until their lips are almost but not quite touching.
“You want me to take you to bed?” he says.
The light breath ghosting over his lips is enough to make Arthur shiver,
fingers tensing against the fabric of Eames’s t-shirt. “Yes,” Arthur says,
tilting his head back a little more, straining up a little higher to try to
close that last infuriating bit of space between them.
The kiss is gentle when it comes, no tongue, a soft touch of lips that somehow
still manages to make Arthur’s toes curl with want.
“Tell me what you want,” Eames says.
“Everything,” Arthur whispers, licking the curve of Eames’s upper lip.
That gets a growl and Eames slides his hands back up, pushing the jacket off
Arthur’s shoulders even as he presses down for a kiss, a real kiss.
Arthur struggles out of the jacket so he can get his arms up around Eames’s
neck. Slowly, almost in time with each slick push of his tongue, Eames starts
nudging Arthur backwards.
It’s hard to walk backwards and kiss at the same time but that’s irrelevant to
the fact that Eames is kissing him, Eames is about to fuck him, Eames’s hands
are fumbling at the buttons of his shirt.
Arthur breaks away with a gasp when his back hits the wall halfway down the
hallway and undoes the last couple of buttons himself, shrugging it off. When
he tries to wrap his arms around Eames’s neck again, lean back up into the
kiss, Eames presses him back against the wall.
“Wait,” he says breathlessly, fingers curling against Arthur’s shoulders like
he’s amazed to finally have the skin under his hands.
“What for?” Arthur reaches for the hem of the black t-shirt instead, tugging at
it until Eames relents and lets go just long enough to strip it off.
“Because I said so,” Eames says and presses his hands to Arthur’s chest.
“Fuck.” Arthur shudders when thick thumbs brush his nipples. He’s never
bothered touching himself like that before because... well, he’s a boy, but it
feels so fucking good as Eames circles them slowly that he decides he’s been
well and truly missing out.
“Do you like that?”
“Yes,” Arthur gasps, and tries to push his hips forward for some friction.
“Good. You have to promise you’re going to talk to me okay, Arthur? You have to
talk to me when I ask you things, and you have to tell the truth.”
The words almost bring the anxiety of what he’s about to do rushing back, but
the soft pressure of Eames’s thumbs rubbing over his nipples is distracting
enough that he really doesn’t care anymore. “Promise.”
“Okay,” Eames says. There’s so much tension in his voice that Arthur can hear
it, cracking at the edges as Eames grabs his hips and guides him the last few
steps into the bedroom. The bed’s just a double, and Arthur can see the door to
an ensuite ajar on the other side of the room.
“Sit,” Eames says, pressing down on Arthur’s shoulders lightly until he obeys.
That’s when it really hits him, perched on the edge of the bed as Eames drops
to his knees and undoes Arthur’s shoelaces, pulling them off along with the
socks and throwing them aside. This is real. He’s really about to actually have
sex, with Eames, and he has no fucking idea at all what he’s doing, and--
“Have you done this before?”
Arthur freezes, staring down at Eames. The lie is right on the tip of his
tongue, but he swallows it down. “No.”
He’s half expecting Eames to change his mind and send him home. Instead he
rests his hands over Arthur’s thighs, so broad and warm that Arthur just wants
them all over him, right now. Then those hands slide higher and Eames moves
closer so he’s kneeling right between Arthur’s legs, a solid weight keeping his
thighs spread.
Arthur’s breathing goes shallow as Eames’s fingers shift to his fly and he
undoes the button, stroking the trembling muscle of Arthur’s stomach before
dragging the zip down.
In that instant Arthur wishes he’d worn underwear, because his cock is hard,
jutting out of his open fly, and Eames is staring at it with his hands braced
over Arthur’s hipbones. Arthur squirms against the pressure, not sure if he
wants Eames to touch him or just say something so he at least knows that his
cock isn’t some utter disappointment.
Eames looks up at him, all dark eyes and swollen lips, and it’s like something
out of Arthur’s very best wet dreams. “I want to suck you.”
The only affirmation Arthur manages to get out is a groan and a nod, hips
jerking up in anticipation.
Slowly, without breaking eye contact until the last second, Eames lowers his
head. “You can grab my hair if you like,” he says, the words fanning warm,
moist air over Arthur’s cock.
Arthur’s hips jerk again and he slides one hand into Eames’s hair, grabs at the
comforter with the other. “Eames,” he says.
Eames breathes out in response, deliberately, and then his hand is curling
around the base of Arthur’s cock, snug and warm and absolutely nothing like the
feel of his own hand wrapped around it. Arthur watches as his mouth closes over
the head of his cock, thighs shuddering at the sudden rush of sensation.
“Fuck,” he says, nails scraping over Eames’s scalp. He can feel his cock
twitching against the pressure of Eames’s tongue and jesus fucking christ, he
needs to come. He tries to thrust deeper into the wet heat of Eames’s mouth but
Eames holds him still, a hand on his hip and a hand wrapped around his cock to
stop him going any further.
There’s nothing he can do but feel it. He can’t just speed up like he would if
he was jerking himself off. Eames’s tongue is slow and relentless and Arthur
can’t do a thing about it but writhe. It’s more than enough though, and within
a few seconds he comes, shaking.
Eames squeezes him through it, and Arthur opens his eyes in time to watch those
fucking lips slip off the end of his cock. He blinks, thighs still trembling.
“Shit. Sorry.” So much for sex.
“Arthur,” Eames says, tugging at the waistband of his trousers until he
wriggles back onto the bed far enough for Eames to drag them the rest of the
way off. “Shhh.”
Arthur shifts back further onto the bed, awkward, not sure exactly how he
should lie or what he should do with his hands. He settles for propping himself
up on his elbows and trying not to feel weird about the fact he’s completely
naked on someone elses’s bed for the first time in his life, still warm and
wrung out from coming.
It gets a whole lot easier to forget how naked he is when Eames stands up and
drops his hands to his own fly, unzipping quickly and shoving his jeans down.
Arthur thought his throat was dry before. When Eames straightens back up,
naked, Arthur’s mouth is so dry he can’t even manage a nervous swallow at the
thick length of his cock curved up against his belly.
That’s going inside me, fuck, he thinks as Eames kneels on the bed, gently
pushing Arthur’s legs apart so he can move up between them until his arms are
braced on either side of Arthur’s head.
The thick muscle of those biceps hemming him in and the solid breadth of
Eames’s chest pressing him down is almost enough to distract him from the feel
of Eames’s erection pressing into his stomach, hot and slick and so fucking
hard.
“Relax,” Eames murmurs, nuzzling at Arthur’s throat.
Having that much bulk spreading his thighs and looming over him is kind of...
not scary, not exactly, but Arthur’s heart rate is already climbing higher as
he tentatively smoothes his hands over the broad muscle of Eames’s back,
testing the tension of muscle and bone as he strokes down to the taper at
Eames’s waist before drawing his hands higher again.
Eames huffs out a breath by his cheek. “Feeling good?”
“Yeah,” Arthur says, trying to fit his hands around Eames’s biceps and failing
miserably, wondering just how easily Eames could break him.
Eames lifts a hand and tilts his chin up, looking down at him for a second
before kissing him softly. There’s a bitter taste on his tongue and it sends a
thrill straight to Arthur’s bones when he realises that it’s his own come,
because yeah, Eames just sucked him off.
He arches up into the kiss, testing Eames’s weight over him and pressing up
into the heat of his erection. And fuck, he’s already getting hard again,
rocking up against the hard muscle of Eames’s stomach.
Eames pulls away before Arthur can really get into it and he lets out a
disappointed groan as Eames reaches across and up over Arthur’s head to the
bedside table. Arthur tips his head back so he can see it, upside down, a
dogeared book beside the lamp and Eames’s hand rummaging in the drawer.
It also puts Eames’s nipple right at mouth level, so Arthur leans up a little
and laps at it, feeling it get hard under the wet pressure of his tongue.
“Fuck, Arthur,” Eames hisses, shuddering. He pulls back, dropping condoms and
lube on the comforter beside them both.
Arthur grins. “So that does feel good for everyone?”
Eames growls and dips his head to suck one of Arthur’s nipples into his mouth,
tounging at it until Arthur’s gasping.
“Generally,” Eames says finally, pressing a kiss to Arthur’s breastbone before
sitting up and tucking his hands under Arthur’s knees. “Lift your legs up.”
Arthur obeys, planting his feet on the comforter and spreading his legs
instinctively. He feels too exposed again without Eames’s body covering him,
but it’s not enough to kill his erection.
He’s not naive, but it still takes a second for it to really sink in what’s
about to happen when Eames flicks open the lube. Arthur isn’t sure whether he’s
terrified or turned on beyond all reason at the thought of Eames fucking him
with those thick fingers, but at least he doesn’t have to wait too long to find
out which it really is.
“I’m going to finger you now,” Eames says, and yeah, okay, as scary as it is
Arthur is really fucking turned on by the thought of Eames’s fingers inside
him.
Eames shifts down the bed so he can lie with his elbows on either side of
Arthur’s hips, one hand stroking soothing circles over his belly. “Are you
ready?”
Arthur gives a tight nod.
“Tell me you’re ready, Arthur. Tell me you want me to slick my fingers and open
you up so I can fuck you like you want me to.”
Eames’s voice is so low, rolling over Arthur’s name that same way it did months
and months ago the first time they met on that street, and Arthur’s trembling
so hard he’s not sure he can choke a single word out.
“Tell me,” Eames repeats, shifting just enough to cover his fingers in lube
before setting it aside and replacing the warm hand across Arthur’s belly.
The lube’s glistening in the lamplight, like a promise of how wet those fingers
are going to be on him, in him, and Arthur manages to swallow. “I want you to
fuck me with your fingers.” The words alone make his stomach clench.
A whole lot more than that clenches at the first wet stroke of Eames’s fingers
over his hole.
“How’s that?” Eames asks, turning his head a little to press a rough kiss to
the inside of Arthur’s knee.
“Weird,” Arthur breathes, trying to spread his legs even further so he can tilt
his hips up into the slick pressure right where nobody has ever touched him
before. “But good.”
The tip of one finger slips in and Arthur freezes, every nerve focused down on
the pleasant stretch as Eames pushes his finger deeper.
“Still good?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Arthur pants, distracted, “Yeah, that’s good.”
Eames isn’t even touching his cock but the familiar tension of orgasm is
already tightening Arthur’s thighs, making him clench down on the solid heat
thrusting slowly back and forth inside him, and that just feels even better.
By the time Eames pushes two fingers in Arthur’s trembling all over and biting
down hard on his lip, rocking his hips in little jerks against the pressure of
Eames’s hand.
“Please, fuck,” he hisses, not even sure exactly what he wants.
“Please, what?” Eames says as he presses down on Arthur’s stomach, soothing
fingers turned firm and probing.
Arthur tosses his head back and forth. The pressure’s too much, thick fingers
spreading him open inside while that hand pushes down on him. “I’m gonna come,”
he says, desperate. “Oh fuck.”
“No, you’re not,” Eames says and pulls his fingers free. “Not quite yet.” He
reaches for the condom.
Arthur watches with half-closed eyes as Eames rolls it on. Eames’s fingers are
big, but two of them still aren’t as big as his cock, and a drop of fear sends
nervous ripples stuttering across Arthur’s skin.
Then Eames is over him again, a blanket of solid warmth pushing him down into
the mattress and lifting his knee a little higher.
“Arthur,” he whispers, nudging Arthur’s nose with his own. “Arthur, I’d really
like to fuck you now, if that’s okay.”
“Yeah, please.” Arthur wraps his legs around Eames’s waist, shaky, and oh fuck
that’s Eames’s cock pushing against his ass, barely nudging in.
It’s more pressure than the fingers were, wider, and Arthur can feel the
shudder in the muscles of Eames’s back as he eases in torturously slow.
“Relax, love.” There’s a shudder in his voice too now. “I’ve got you.”
Arthur digs his nails into Eames’s shoulders, teeth buried in his lip. He wants
to relax. He wants to let the tension seep away so he can concentrate on how
good it feels. He really wants to. But... he shifts, wincing at the pain that
streaks through him, colouring the pleasure too much for him to just relax into
it. Eames feels huge, even if Arthur knows academically that this shouldn’t be
such a big deal.
“Are you okay?” Eames says, voice warm and unsteady next to Arthur’s ear.
He wants to lie. It’d be so easy to lie, and it’s not like he wants Eames to
stop. “I... .” Arthur breathes out, slowly, feeling the sharp ache where Eames
is buried all the way inside him. Fuck. “It kind of hurts.”
Eames pulls out, faster than he pushed in, and there in that friction is enough
pleasure to make Arthur hiss.
“Sorry,” Eames grits out. He pushes back.
Arthur’s about to protest when Eames pulls him up. “Here,” he says, rolling
onto his back.
Somehow Eames manages to be even more intimidating stretched out on his back.
Arthur eyes his cock, still hard and wet, and licks his lips. He wants to do
this. His fingers trail down Eames’s chest, splay over his stomach, and he
tentatively shifts until his knees are sinking into the mattress on either side
of Eames’s hips.
He should feel more in control, but he just feels overwhelmed.
“Just go at your own pace,” Eames says, reaching out to brace Arthur’s hipbones
in a comforting grip. Not enough to control, just enough to support.
It’s easier to take Eames’s cock in this time, different now he gets to decide
how fast and how far that stretch spreads inside his body. By the time he’s
sitting flush against Eames’s thighs, he’s panting again.
“Better, yeah?” Eames rocks him a little.
“Yeah,” Arthur says and braces his palms flat against the coarse hair on
Eames’s chest, working himself back and forth a little, testing.
Eames bites his lip and his eyes flutter closed. The sudden sense of power is
like a revelation, and Arthur rocks slowly just to watch the tension grow on
Eames’s face. That, and it feels fucking good. There’s still a slight ache
hovering just beneath the warm pleasure creeping up his spine, but it’s not
enough to stop him lifting himself up and fucking back down properly. “Fuck.”
“That’s it,” Eames says, gripping his hips harder, tilting his hips up a
little.
He’s not kidding. Arthur uses the leverage from his hands to work up a steady
rhythm, all the way out and then in deep again. It feels different to having
his cock touched; the inexorable sense of orgasm feels like it’s coming from
somewhere deeper, more intense. “Eames,” he hisses, rolling his hips. “I’m
really going to come.”
“Yeah,” he growls and pulls Arthur’s hips down, hard. “Now you are.”
It’s not quite true. It takes a few more hard thrusts with Eames rocking up
into him before he shudders and comes all over Eames’s stomach, arms and thighs
trembling.
Eames groans and bucks up one last time, and Arthur swears he can feel the jerk
of his cock inside him as he comes.
Arthur glances down, and Eames is grinning up at him with a loose, sleepy look
in his eyes. He looks about like Arthur feels, actually. Arthur wants to move,
get comfortable, but moving seems like a whole lot of effort that he really
doesn’t have the muscle control for anymore.
As if he knows exactly what he’s thinking, Eames shifts his grip on Arthur’s
hips and lifts him slowly, helping lift his leg so he can lie down.
So. That’s sex. He kind of wants to say it out loud. But it’s easier to stay
quiet and press boneless into Eames’s side, listen to the steady beat of his
heart and rasp of his breath.
Maybe he falls asleep a little. He must, because the next thing he knows
there’s a cool touch between his thighs.
“You don’t have to move,” Eames says when he stirs, wiping him clean. “Just
stay there.”
Arthur’s not about to argue. It’s kind of nice, anyway.
The bed dips again and then Eames presses in beside him, kissing his neck, the
curve of his shoulder. “You awake?”
“Mmm,” Arthur says, curling closer to the enveloping warmth of Eames’s body.
The next kiss brushes his hairline. “ ‘night, Arthur.”
Arthur can’t even muster up an incoherent sound in response.
*
There’s a weird moment of disorientation when Arthur wakes up. It’s not his
bed, or his pillow, and there’s a bulky body pressed up against his back.
He doesn’t open his eyes straight away. Eames’s knee is nudged between his
thighs, one arm curled over his side, and it’s comfortable in a way Arthur
hadn’t realised sharing a bed with someone could be. He brushes his fingers
over the back of Eames’s hand.
“Morning.”
Arthur starts at the murmur of lips against the nape of his neck. “Hey.”
“How are you feeling?” Eames’s hand drifts lower, settling on his hip.
Comfortable. A bit sore. Holy fuck I’m not a virgin anymore. “Good.”
Eames kisses the back of his neck and nuzzles at his hair. “Ready for some
breakfast maybe?”
Arthur wriggles over onto his back and looks up at Eames. He’s smiling, and
there are creases at the corner of his eyes that Arthur has never noticed
before. “I don’t know. Moving feels kind of hard right now.”
“Well,” Eames says, brushing hair away from Arthur’s forehead. “I’d love to say
we should just stay in bed all morning.” His fingers walk down over Arthur’s
hip. “But I’m hungry.” He kisses him, once, just long enough to make it obvious
that if it weren’t for morning breath and desire for food, they’d definitely be
staying in bed all morning.
Eames rolls away and Arthur sits up on his elbows, mostly just to check out
Eames’s ass as he bends over to step back into his pants.
“Here.” Eames pulls a couple of things out of the dresser and drops them on the
edge of the bed. “Get dressed, wash up, nap a bit longer, whatever you like.
Then come out when you’re ready.”
Arthur flops back on the bed, stretching. There’s a warm spot where Eames was
lying, the slight dip in the bed, and everything smells like him. All things
considered, it’s possibly the best morning ever.
He grabs the clothes Eames threw on the bed. It’s just some shorts and a t-
shirt that’ll definitely be too big for him. Slowly, careful of the fact his
muscles really don’t feel like they want to carry him, he swings his legs over
the edge of the bed and pulls the shirt over his head. It hits low enough to
cover his ass, at least, and he leaves the shorts behind as he heads down the
hallway.
*
The scratchy sound of a radio drifts down the hallway. Arthur tugs the shirt
down a little lower as he steps into the kitchen, sudden nervousness knotting
his stomach. It’s not like he knows what he’s meant to do; say thank you? Make
a hasty retreat before things get awkward?
He hopes things don’t get awkward.
Eames is leaning into the fridge, humming along with the radio. Arthur clears
his throat.
“Arthur,” Eames says, straightening up. “You’re--” The smile fades from his
face when he looks up, mouth falling open just a little.
The wet glint of Eames’s tongue is enough to bring up the memory of how it felt
working against the underside of his cock, but Arthur shoves the thought away.
“I’m--”
“Gorgeous,” Eames finishes, before Arthur can apologise. “Jesus Christ, Arthur,
you’re just...”
He steps closer and slides the flat of his hand up the back of Arthur’s thigh.
Arthur tenses in anticipation, breath catching in his throat, but the warm
weight of his fingers only barely creeps beneath the soft edge of the t-shirt,
settling just under the curve of his ass without straying higher. It’s an
undemanding pressure, but Arthur leans into it anyway.
“Ready for breakfast?” Eames says after a second, fingers tightening on
Arthur’s skin as if he’s worried he might actually go away.
“Yeah,” Arthur says, trying to ignore how hard it is to breath with Eames’s
hand practically cupping his bare ass. He rests his hands on the thick muscle
of Eames’s biceps, squeezing.
Eames slips two fingers under his chin and tilts his head up to kiss him then,
slow and unhurried, and Arthur’s toes curl against the cool tile.
“When do you have to get home?” Eames says once he pulls away and goes back to
digging eggs and milk out of the fridge.
Arthur sits down at the counter. “Not until this afternoon, at least.” He
almost says his mother’s not expecting him until then, but figures now is
probably a really bad time to remind Eames that he just fucked a sixteen year
old. Almost seventeen year old. Whatever.
“So we’ve got time to watch those Gordon movies?”
There’s a plaque on the wall closest to Arthur, metallic, a first place from
the World Gymnastics Championships. The year means it’s from Eames’s first time
competing, Arthur doesn’t even have to think about it to know that. And that’s
when it hits him... this is the Eames. He just lost his virginity to one of the
fucking best male gymnasts of the last ten years, the same guy he’s been
jerking off over since he was fifteen, and--
“Arthur? You okay?”
Arthur blinks, and grins. “Yeah.”
He’s way better than okay.
*
The gym is empty and quiet when Arthur walks in, the setting sun throwing glare
off the mirrors. He’s about to open his mouth and call out when he spots Eames
on the pommel horse.
Watching Eames up close is nothing like watching Eames on T.V. Especially now,
when Arthur can look at the way sweat streaks the bunched muscles of Eames’s
neck and back and know how that same muscle feels when it tenses under his
hands, the weight and breadth of it pressing him down into the mattress.
He waits until Eames dismounts and reaches for his towel. “Your flares could
have been stronger.”
Eames glances up with a grin, scrubbing the towel over his face. “Oh?”
Arthur leans his elbows on the pommel horse. “Yeah.”
“Right. Because you’re the expert.” Eames slings the towel over his shoulder
and sets his hands on either side of Arthur’s elbows. “Any other observations?”
“You’re really hot,” Arthur says, because he can, because it feels good to say
out loud and have it mean something. Even the way Eames glances around just to
be sure nobody else is in the gym before he leans down into the kiss isn’t
enough to ruin how fucking good Arthur feels.
“So,” Eames says finally, brushing their lips together, “how did your last exam
go?”
“Better than I thought it would. I think. I don’t know. The main thing is that
it’s done.”
“Given any thought to what you’re going to do over the summer?”
He hasn’t, really. Not beyond spend as much time with you as humanly possible,
anyway. “I figure I’ll try to get a summer job or something.”
“Hmm.” Eames straightens up. “Sarah was asking about hiring one of the older
students to help her with the toddler class we’re starting over the summer. You
could talk to her about that.”
“Maybe, after grad.” He lifts himself up on the pommel horse a little, trying
to get closer for another kiss. “Apparently there’s going to be an even bigger
party than there was for prom.”
Eames raises an eyebrow. “Is there now.”
“There is.” Just thinking about it makes Arthur’s skin feel too warm, tense,
desperate for the prospect of more than a snatched hour or two together after
school. Sure, right now sex any way he can get it is great, but there’s
something to be said for having time to just touch and hang out afterwards.
Eames has an amazing DVD collection that they’ve barely put a dent in.
“I guess I’ll have to check my calendar,” Eames says, but he’s smiling as he
turns around and heads towards his office.
Arthur props his hands on his chin and watches him walk away for a good ten
seconds
Before, summer seemed like a boring stretch of too much time and nothing to do
with it but wait for college to start.
Now, it’s looking a whole lot more interesting.
                       ********************************
It’s not an accident that Arthur is standing outside on a late August morning,
staring into the trunk of the car he got for graduation and his birthday as if
glaring alone will be enough to make more space. He’s so intent on the contents
of his trunk that he doesn’t even hear the footsteps approaching.
“You won’t have room for anything else in your dorm anyway,” a familiar voice
breathes just behind his ear, and Arthur starts.
“My mom’s just inside,” he says carefully, a warning, because as easy and
comfortable as they’ve gotten with each other over the summer, it’d really suck
to slip up now.
Eames’s eyes narrow a little, and he keeps the distance between them instead of
moving any closer. “I just wanted to come and say goodbye.”
Arthur bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself saying you already did
that yesterday afternoon. “Thanks.”
Eames rests his hand on the roof the car, hemming Arthur in without touching
him. “You’re ready to go then?”
“Pretty much,” Arthur says. Having Eames so close shouldn’t fuck his breathing
up so much anymore, but he can’t help it. The body of the car is cool against
his back, a solid reminder that there’s nowhere to run. Not that he really
wants to.
“Be careful, okay?” Eames presses in closer, setting his other hand on the roof
of the car.
It’s stupid and reckless but all Arthur can think is please fucking kiss me. “I
will,” he whispers, as Eames’s nose brushes his temple.
He knows he shouldn’t, but he tilts his face up and it’s all the encouragement
Eames needs to kiss him, hard. Only for a second, and Arthur can’t help the
disappointed noise he makes when Eames steps away.
“Sorry,” Eames says, tucking his hands into his pockets. His lips are wet, and
suddenly Arthur really, really doesn’t want to go.
“Don’t be.” He sucks in a breath. “I’ll call you later.”
“Promise?”
Arthur smiles. “As if I’d forget.”
End Notes
     JFC, I don't even know what to say about this fic. Six months and
     nearly 30k later, I'm finally putting this baby to bed. It was meant
     to be 3-4k of silly AU to kill some time and procrastinate over other
     fic, and somehow it turned into... well, this. Thank you so, so much
     to everyone who followed this as a wip, or commented, or supported me
     when I was having minor freak outs on twitter over it, or even all
     three. You guys are the best, seriously, and I love you all to
     pieces. <3 Sorry it took so long in the end. There is an Eames pov
     epilogue to come, but for now I just need to be able to say BB BENDY
     IS FINALLY FINISHED. \o/
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