Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/332553.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Inception_(2010)
  Relationship:
      Arthur/Eames, Dom_Cobb/Mal_(Inception), Arthur/OMC
  Character:
      Arthur, Eames, Dom_Cobb, Mal_(Inception), Ariadne, Yusuf
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe, Age_Difference
  Series:
      Part 1 of It's_Not_the_Things_You_Say
  Collections:
      Inception_Big_Bang
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-02-04 Chapters: 7/7 Words: 59954
****** It's Not the Things You Say ******
by dizzzylu
Summary
     Continuing the Cohen family tradition, eighteen year old Arthur is
     about to spend the summer before college with a mentor, a distant
     family friend tasked with helping Arthur transition from a doted upon
     only son in a family of women to responsible college student. Even
     though they seem well matched -- Eames a best selling author, Arthur
     interested in editing and publishing -- Arthur isn't exactly looking
     forward to spending his last summer stuck in a stuffy cabin with an
     old man he hasn't even met. Once Arthur arrives at Eames' Virginia
     lake house, that all changes. And just like that, the summer Arthur
     had been half-dreading doesn't seem nearly long enough.
Notes
     Please make sure to check out the wonderful art by adelaide_rain
     here!
***** Chapter 1 *****
Arthur looks at his Smart Car then at the picturesque sky and thinks, not for
the first time, that he should've waited another year. Saved long enough to
spring for the cabriolet instead of settling for the coupe. After all, the
impending six hour drive to a remote lake in the wilds of Virginia would be a
lot more enjoyable if he could put the top down.
He sighs, hands in his pockets, as he wishes once again that he were headed to
the beach instead, relaxing for the first time after eight grueling years of
the finest education Annapolis has to offer. Eighteen years if he counts from
the day he was born and first tormented by his older sisters.
The screen door slams shut from behind him and he turns to see his mother
walking out, handkerchief clutched in one hand, a brown paper sack in the
other. Arthur manages not to roll his eyes, but it's a close thing.
"There's a sandwich and some snacks in here," she explains, handing him the
bag. He has to look away from her eyes, shining with unshed tears, and decides
to inspect the bag: peanut butter and jelly with baby carrots and a snack-size
bag of Doritos. "Do you think you'll need more?"
"You really didn't have to," he says instead of, I'm not five anymore, mom. He
drops it into the driver's seat, half hoping to smash it when he gets in.
She frames Arthur's face with her hands, forcing him to look at her instead of
the ground. "Arthur Cohen, you may be eighteen, but you'll always be my baby.
It's my job, don't take that away from me."
A tear slides down one cheek and Arthur follows it with the pad of his thumb,
makes a soft sound in the back of his throat as he pulls her to him, wrapping
her up in his long arms. Her head fits perfectly under his chin. "You act like
I'm going off to war," he chides gently, brushing his lips against the dry skin
of her temple. "I'll be back in three months. Maybe less."
There's a long, loud sniff and his mom pulls away, her cheeks wetter than
before. "I know, I know. I just can't help it." She waves his hand away and
uses the kerchief to dab at her tears. "Are you all ready to go, then?"
Arthur looks back at the car, checking to make sure he's got both duffels and
his laptop bag. He's about to answer her when she grabs his arm. "I forgot one
thing, wait here." He watches her disappear into the house, only to emerge a
moment later with his garment bag. He can't stop his eyes from rolling this
time.
"Mom, I'm gonna be in the middle of the woods. Not in New York or Paris. I
doubt I'll be needing any sort of formal attire, let alone my suit."
She pushes past him to lay his suit out over the other bags, skims a palm over
it to smooth out the wrinkles. "You never know, Arthur. You might meet a
handsome young man while you're working. Or," she slips her hands into her
pockets and makes a small surprised sound, "when you're at that bookshop. I
just want you prepared."
She looks down at her right pocket, and her hand comes out holding a wad of
bills. "I can't believe I almost forgot this, either," she worries, pressing
them into Arthur's hand. "Just in case."
Arthur doesn't count the money in front of her, but he can guess he's holding
about two hundred dollars. Maybe three. "Mom..." he says gently as he tries to
give it back, reaches out for her pocket when she pulls her hands away, but
she's adamant.
"Just take it, Arthur. Or I'll send it to Eames and have him sneak it into your
wallet somehow." She has a hand wrapped around his wrist, stopping him in his
tracks, and she doesn't let go until he pulls back and stuffs the bills in his
pocket, frowning slightly.
Arthur shakes his head and pulls her into another hug. "You're impossible,
y'know."
"It's my job," she reminds him with a haughty sniff.
Eventually, her arms find their way around his waist again and squeeze hard. He
can feel her tears dampening his shirt, but he lets her have the moment. Even
takes one of his own to close his eyes and inhale deeply, getting one last
whiff of the unique collection of smells that is his mother: fresh baked
cookies, coffee, and cold cream.
When he feels her arms slacken a little bit, he pushes gently at her shoulders.
Her eyes are red and cheeks tear-streaked and, in this moment, he loves her
impossibly. "Three months, mom. I'm coming back."
She nods, her lips forming a tight, thin line. He can see the tremors anyway.
Her head tips up and she kisses him once on each cheek, tweaks his nose when he
thumbs away her tears and kisses her forehead. "Drive safe," she manages; a
wretched, hoarse sound.
Arthur nods, not trusting himself to talk as he feels tears prick his own eyes.
His mom retreats to the shade of the porch, clinging to the column to watch
Arthur make one final check of his baggage and shift the sack lunch to the
passenger seat in an overly obvious gesture before getting behind the wheel. He
turns the key and gives her a long look, a flash of his dimples, and slings his
arm over the passenger seat, twisting to check his rear view. There's nobody
coming and it only takes one smooth move for Arthur to back out and shift into
drive, giving his mom one last wave before pulling away.
It doesn't take him long to get to the US-50 on-ramp, but there is a long,
quiet moment of indecision where he almost decides to go east toward Rehoboth
Beach and his friends. Predictably, Arthur's conscience rears its ugly head and
he turns west instead, leaving Annapolis behind.
On a perfect day, Google maps says it's a five hour drive to the lake. Arthur
manages to stretch it out for another hour by enjoying the beauty of the day,
despite his lack of a convertible. The farther away from home he gets, the more
relaxed he feels in his neck and shoulders. And as the disembodied voice of the
GPS tells him when and where to turn, Arthur finds himself almost looking
forward to the summer. At least he'll be out from under his sisters' thumbs for
once.
Sure he'd outgrown the shortest one by four inches a few years back and hadn't
let them put make-up on him since he was nine, but they still manage to treat
him like their baby most of the time, anyway. He loves them all fiercely, but a
guy's got to grow up sometime, and though he'd hoped they would've figured that
out once they all went to college and spent some time away from him, it had yet
to happen. This trip might just be his final hope.
Sooner than he likes, Arthur's pulling into a long, winding driveway, trees
lining either side. The branches meet in the middle, creating a thick canopy of
leaves that blocks out the waning rays of the evening sun. The lack of light
makes the car's headlights flick on.
It hadn't been this dark the last time he was here, he thinks, then gives
himself a mental slap. It'd just been the beginning of the growing season, he
remembers, the trees still bare, but budding out in anticipation of the spring
thaw. Now, though, it's a riot of greens and golds, and Arthur slows a little
to try and pick out the different species.
The house at the top of the drive is just how Arthur remembers it, a sprawling
log cabin-esque structure with a row of windows reaching from one end to the
other, broken up only by the double front door. Another shorter line of windows
starts above the door and stops just short of the end of the house, skylights
dotting the roof all the way across. An exposed stone chimney anchors one end
of the house, smoke lazily curling up past the cover of the trees. A wide,
columned porch wraps around the other end, disappearing toward the back of the
house into what Arthur assumes will be a deck.
"Could make a lot of money here as a window washer," Arthur murmurs to himself,
pulling up to a detached garage that echoes the house's design; all thick,
blonde logs with an exposed stone foundation interrupted by two car-size doors
and one wider door on the farthest end. Arthur parks in front of the closest
one, then grabs his suit and a duffel and approaches the porch, two
intimidating columns flanking either side of the flagstone steps. He rings the
doorbell and waits a moment, scanning the vegetation and listening to the
variety of bird calls all around him.
It's peaceful, he can at least admit that, out here in the woods. A blue heron
croaks in the distance, so loud it sounds as though it's standing right next to
him; his eyes slant down to check, just in case. The air tastes cleaner, too,
doesn't make his lungs feel thick when he breathes.
The heron calls again, loud and rough, and Arthur realizes he's been standing
on the porch for several long minutes, lost in the shushing of the trees and
the sharp whistling of a pair of cardinals. Turning back to the door, he peeks
through the sidelight to see if he can spot Eames or, at the very least, a
person-shaped shadow. He doesn't.
The door looks to be solid oak, and his knocking will probably be futile, but
he tries it anyway, knocking hard enough for his knuckles to come away sore. He
watches through the window again, frowns when still nobody appears. Collecting
his duffel, Arthur decides to follow the driveway where it curves around the
side of the house, in between it and the garage.
The backyard is a lot like the front: a deck that runs the entire length of the
house; a natural-looking landscape with plenty of trees and shrubs; a sparkling
lake beyond that where Arthur can see tiny dots skimming over its surface.
Arthur is so captivated by the sight, he doesn't see Eames ten feet in front of
him and a little to the right, messing around in one of the few sunnier
gardens. It isn't until Eames stands, bare-chested and sweaty, wiping his hands
on the jeans hanging low on his hips, that Arthur sees him. And when Eames
smiles at him and says hello in a smoky British accent, those obscene, pink
lips rounding themselves around the 'O', Arthur's mouth goes dry.
Oh, shit.
                                     : : :
Here's the thing.
Arthur's known that this summer was coming for years. It's been a tradition on
his dad's side of the family for as far back as anybody can remember; the Cohen
men leaving the nest for a summer of manly bonding and maturing before they
head off to university. It's not a horrible tradition, getting away from all
the clucking and mothering of four (sometimes more) sisters, but like any
proper teenager, Arthur had fought it tooth and nail, wanting instead to join
Yusuf and Ariadne and a dozen of their closest friends in a house in Rehoboth
Beach for the first half of the summer.
But his mother had insisted this would be better for him, that this supposed
family friend -- Eames, no mister -- would not only be a good male influence
and help him acclimate to living on his own, but could also be a mentor and
excellent contact point for future networking.
So, off they'd gone, taking the week of spring break -- and really, Arthur was
already giving up his summer for this ridiculous, archaic nonsense, did he have
to sacrifice his spring break, too?!? -- to get to know the area where he would
be living for three months. Find a job and the good stores, a cozy bookshop-
slash-coffee shop for Arthur to lose himself in, an amusement park to go to
once he made some friends.
They covered everything they thought Arthur would need during the summer.
Except, unfortunately, for meeting Eames, who hadn't been available due to his
youngest sister's wedding.
Which is how Arthur finds himself speechless, duffel bag in his right hand,
garment bag slung over his shoulder in the left, mouth watering at the sight of
golden, inked skin, sheened in sweat, and coming closer to him with every wide,
graceful step.
Arthur hadn't thought about it much, really, what this summer would be like,
what Eames would be like. Mostly because he kept busy with studying and working
and the cross-country team. But also because thinking about it for too long
just made him mad all over again.
The few times he did let himself wonder, however, he imagined Eames older with
a bit of a belly, oily grey hair styled in a lame comb-over. The house, though
he'd seen the outside of it during his spring break trip, he wagered would be
filled with 70s kitsch and shag carpeting. Probably a water wall and at least a
dozen stupid lava lamps.
Ok, so maybe Arthur has a bit of a vindictive streak. He also doesn't like to
admit when he's wrong, but in this case, he would happily eat crow all night
long.
He has to drop his duffel as Eames approaches, hand reaching out, smiling wide.
His voice is rough and his British accent clipped when he says, "Arthur, nice
to finally meet you."
It's instinctual to reach out and shake his hand, the skin of Eames' palm
sandpapery against Arthur's own. Bigger, too; his thick, blunt fingers an
enveloping warmth. Arthur looks down at them for a long moment, then back up to
Eames and his startling blue-grey eyes.
"You, too," he gets out, finally, not sounding quite as weak as it could have.
Eames gives his hand a squeeze, then lets go and bends over to pick up the bag.
Arthur tries to protest, but Eames is already halfway to the house, carrying
the bag like it weighs nothing, and it isn't until Eames is at the door and
calling his name that Arthur startles, realizes he'd been staring at the
flexing muscles of Eames' back. How broad his shoulders are and how his back
tapers at the waist. How the jeans are just barely hanging on to those slim
hips, teasing Arthur by highlighting the top swell of Eames' ass.
Arthur swallows and shakes himself out of his daze. "I'm sorry?"
"Come on in and I'll give you the tour." His eyebrows flicker into a half-
frown, but his smile doesn't falter.
Arthur follows him inside.
                                     : : :
Despite how fancy it looks on the outside, the inside of the house is rather
humble. Not quite the typical bachelor pad -- clothes strewn all over, empty
cups and plates littering every available flat surface, skin mags and pizza
boxes carpeting the floor -- but also not filled with priceless furniture
Arthur would be too afraid to sit on.
Most of the woodwork is light, to brighten up a house blanketed in shade. In
the living room, the effect is offset by a chocolate brown sofa and hunter
green club chairs, all facing a massive entertainment center on the opposite
wall. The fireplace, Arthur notes, is real; a stack of logs sits to the side of
it.
The kitchen is more formal with all the of the appliances finished in stainless
steel, which helps reflect what little light streams in through the wall of
windows overlooking the lake. There is a bar with stools to sit on and chat
with Eames while he works, but there's also a little nook that sticks out,
breaking the straight line of the house. It's in the shape of half a hexagon
and protrudes so far from the house, Arthur almost feels like it's its own
stand-alone structure. It is positioned so that Arthur has the most fantastic
view of the lake to where it disappears on the horizon, and wonders if the
house was built this way or if the vegetation was removed to create the view.
He has just enough time to decide on a little bit of both before Eames is
waving toward a shadowed hallway that leads to his bedroom and office, then
takes the stairs, two at a time, to the second floor and disappears around a
corner. Arthur once again finds himself transfixed by the ease with with Eames
slings the bag around, as if it isn't filled with just about every article of
clothing Arthur owns. Eames peeks around the wall, eyebrows raised, to get
Arthur moving again, and there's a slight heat burning in Arthur's cheeks.
When he turns the corner, Eames is dropping Arthur's bag on the floor and
spreads his arms wide only to let them fall to his sides. "And this'll be your
room."
Arthur finds himself in a huge room that takes up the entirety of the second
floor and looks more inviting than his own bedroom at home. Its centerpiece is
a heavy king-size bed, the wood stained dark, topped with a plush comforter and
an obscene pile of pillows, all in varying shades of pale yellow. Paired with
the color of the walls, it looks like the sun in a idyllic blue sky.
The rest of the furniture matches the bed in color but not style. While the
headboard has intricate carvings in it, the vanity is plain and utilitarian,
the bureau an antique, the nightstand modern and quirky.
At the other end of the room is a cozy sitting area anchored by a smaller
version of the living room's entertainment center. Facing it is a midnight blue
loveseat and matching overstuffed chairs. The coffee table is actually a chest,
the same color as the rest of the wood furniture, with a lid that Eames lifts
to show Arthur where extra blankets are stored. On the same wall are two closed
doors that Arthur decides to explore later, while he unpacks.
He turns back to Eames who's still standing near the coffee table, hands in his
pockets. For the first time, he looks a little nervous and this more than
anything helps settle Arthur, despite finding it difficult to not follow the
curling tendrils of the tattoo on Eames' shoulder with his eyes, if not his
fingers.
Arthur breaks the awkward silence first. "I like it. It's nice."
"My sister picked everything out." Eames explains. "She comes to visit more
often than I'd like, and insists on it being just like home when she does. No
ugly bedspread and lumpy sofa for her."
Arthur grins. "Sounds like you two are close."
Eames winks when he says, "Unlike you and your sisters, I'm sure."
"I can assure you, that's not by choice," Arthur replies, but he's smiling when
he says it.
"Oh, speaking of my sister," Eames shrugs and, for the first time, breaks eye
contact with Arthur first. A light blush stains Eames' cheeks. "She'll be here
the end of next month. She wasn't supposed to be, but she has some business to
attend to. I'll need you to sleep on the downstairs couch while she's here. I'm
terribly sorry."
Arthur waves away the apology. "I'm the guest in this equation. I'll be fine."
Eames nods. "Well, I think you can figure everything out from here. Make
yourself at home, yeah? I usually eat dinner around seven. Is there anything
you don't or can't eat that I should know about?"
"I'm allergic to shellfish. But other than that..."
"Right. You're easy. I like that." Eames grins and chuckles and Arthur can't
stop the spike of lust, or the smile that follows it. "Dinner. Seven." Eames
nods once, smiling, and leaves, allowing Arthur the time and privacy to get
comfortable.
                                     : : :
Finding plenty of room in the walk-in closet (door number two) and en suite
(door number one) for all of his belongings, Arthur takes his time unpacking.
He can hear Eames rattling around when he comes downstairs to get the rest of
his things. Cleaning up, maybe; preparing dinner, probably.
Back upstairs, Arthur's fists clench every time he replays the moment in the
garden, how Eames rose to his feet in one smooth move, all his limbs uncurling
and stretching. The smile he gave Arthur, a little shy, a lot crooked, framed
by lush lips begging to be sucked, begging to be fucked. Warm like the hand
he'd offered. The skin dry but soft in a way, rasping against Arthur's slimmer
fingers when it pulled away.
Eames' back flashes behind Arthur's eyes, the broad expanse of it, the strong
line of his spine and the sweat gathered in the hollow at the end of it. His
mouth twitches at the thought of falling to his knees and kissing that spot.
Barely more than a brush of his parted lips, gathering the sweat and salt with
his tongue.
There is cold marble under Arthur's hands when he comes back to himself,
leaning on the vanity, face to face with himself in the mirror. He's flushed,
his eyes dark. And-- yes, his cock has been enjoying the mental playback. He
spits out a curse and grinds the heel of his hand along the hot length, hoping
to get himself under control. It doesn't work.
A bottle of hand lotion catches Arthur's eye. He reaches for it as he kicks the
door closed and wrenches his shirt off. His cock is hot and throbbing through
the material of his shorts when he unzips them, carefully pushing them and his
boxers over his erection. He thumbs at the head, hissing at being so sensitive
already, and slicks his palm with the precome there. With the lotion and
snapshot fantasies of what Eames would look like during sex -- Arthur's legs
wrapped around his waist or over his shoulders; Eames looming large and heavy
and taking Arthur from behind; Eames pinning Arthur against a wall, easily
taking his weight -- it doesn't take Arthur very long to come, shaky and
gasping, all over his stomach and chest.
Arthur wants to be surprised at this turn of events, already crushing on a guy
he's just barely met, a guy he has to spend the next three months living with,
a guy old enough to be-- well, not his father, but a much older brother, at
least. Which is sort of what everybody was hoping Arthur would get out of this
trip. A male relationship for Arthur whose dad had died far too soon.
The fact is, Arthur's always been attracted to guys that are older than him.
It started with his next door neighbor, Tyler, a boy four years older than
Arthur. A good kid, if a little quiet, with all-American good looks: blonde
hair, blue eyes, picture-perfect smile. The only time they really spent
together was when they were mowing the grass in the summer. Tyler with his
shirt off, his body just starting to muscle out from his baseball playing,
looked flawless in the sun, his skin golden and glistening as they shared a
glass of lemonade on the porch.
Then there was the morning Arthur woke up with a mess in his underwear, cold
and sticky and confusing. He'd buried the evidence deep in his hamper, then
washed up in the bathroom as quietly as possible, half-remembering how he'd
dreamt of Tyler shirtless and on Arthur's bed, just lying there. He never
mentioned the episode to anybody. Not the first time.
When it happened for the third time in two weeks, he had to know. He explained
it to Yusuf, his nerdy best friend, and swore him to secrecy before explaining
the situation, leaving the bizarre dreams of Tyler out of the equation. Arthur
felt better knowing that this was normal, but still confused about why Tyler
was the object of his new-found lust.
And then, as it usually happens in a military-heavy neighborhood, Tyler's dad
was reassigned after a year, and Arthur's crush disappeared along with them.
After that, it was Ariadne's older cousin. Much older cousin. Nearly ten years
older than the two of them. Visiting from Greece for the first time ever, he
was the epitome of tall, dark and handsome. All long limbs and a charming smile
with dark eyes and darker hair. Thirteen year old Arthur never stood a chance,
hanging out at Ariadne's parents' nursery, helping to bag purchases (for no
pay, thank you very much) and trying not to stare as Theo hefted hundred pound
trees around like they weighed nothing, the muscles of his back flexing and
shifting with each movement.
(He was also the first in a long line of guys with accents that Arthur fell
head over heels for, but he tries not to analyze that too much.)
Arthur manages to last a whole week before jacking off to thoughts of Theo, his
skin flawless and golden, his hair damp and curling with sweat, how heavy his
hands are when he rests them on Arthur's shoulders. But once the floodgates are
open, a teenager's libido cannot be contained, and though Arthur's sure his mom
thinks the amount of tissues and lotion he goes through that summer is
excessive, she doesn't say a word. Something for which Arthur is eternally
grateful.
When August rolls around, Theo returns to Greece, bronzed and smiling, leaving
behind Arthur's broken heart and the growing realization that he's gay.
Jake breezes into Arthur's life when he's sixteen and just starting to get
comfortable with his gangly limbs. Being on the cross-country team helps with
that, but so does hanging out with Marcus, whose dad is the coach for the team,
and is also kind of the opposite of Arthur in every way, including the fact
that he comes from a family of all boys.
One of those brothers is Jake, in his third year at the local state college,
majoring in music. On his off days, he assists his dad with the coaching
duties.
Arthur tries not to make too much of it when Jake seems to be extra friendly
toward Arthur, offering to help with extra coaching after practice, or a ride
home if the weather's not ideal. It's a little more difficult to ignore the
random touching. Nothing untoward, but he definitely touches Arther more than
the other boys; a hand brushing against his shoulder while running drills, or
maybe too high on Arthur's thigh when helping to deepen a stretch.
Jake is attractive and a truly nice guy, but Arthur is only out to Yusuf and
Ariadne and, due to a horribly embarrassing accident, his family, so he's a
little unsure what to do with this new-found attention. Ends up ignoring it
until he can't, spends too many late nights remembering hot brown eyes and
slim, nimble fingers. Long hair and longer legs.
At the end of the school year, Coach has the whole team over for a barbecue.
It's an unseasonably warm day for May in Annapolis, so they've opened the pool
and all the boys shed their shirts the minute they step in the yard. The girls
change upstairs in the bedrooms, and then it's a free for all, screaming and
laughing and having a good time. All of Marcus' brothers are there, including
Jake, and Arthur feels his gaze like a physical thing, heavy on his back. He
darts furtive looks at Jake, but is never quite able to catch his eye.
Later, when Arthur's in the house washing his hands so he can get a snack (ok,
a third plate of food), there's a breeze on his back and, as he looks up into
the mirror, Jake is looking back at him, eyes wide and dark.
"I thought I locked that," Arthur manages to say around the lump in his throat.
Jake looks down at the knob in his hand, then back up at Arthur. "This door's
always been a little tricky."
Arthur nods and reaches for the towel. "Right. Well. I'm done here, so..." He
approaches the door -- approaches Jake blocking the door -- and stops just
short of touching him. Looks up at him with an arched brow, waiting for Jake to
move aside. When he doesn't, Arthur tries to push lightly at his hip, his
fingertips barely registering the moisture on Jake's skin.
Jake sighs his name and Arthur feels it on his face, they're that close. He
can't look up, won't look up, until Jake cups his cheek, tilting his head up.
Just that touch sets Arthur's blood on fire, rushing through his veins to his
groin, filling his cock almost painfully fast.
His eyes are closed when lips brush his, damp and light. Then again, and again,
each one longer than before. Arthur whispers yes against Jake's lips, all the
permission he needs to place a hand on Arthur's shoulder and push him back,
close the door behind them. Arthur feels himself being guided, slowly, in a
turn. His eyes pop open at the touch of cool, slick wood on his heated skin,
and the way Jake's eyes have gone black sends a shiver down Arthur's spine.
"You have no idea..." Jake whispers into the skin of Arthur's neck, sucking at
the pulse, dragging his teeth down the curve to Arthur's neck. Arthur's hands
find Jake's hips and cling, fingers struggling for purchase on all that damp
skin just so he can stay on his feet. His cock is throbbing and he whines when
Jake passes the back of his hand over it, teasing.
Then Jake's mouth is on a nipple, hot and wet and sucking. Arthur's fingers
thread through Jake's hair and clench, holding him there, thinking he couldn't
possibly feel anything better than this. Until Jake drags the pad of his thumb
up the spine of Arthur's cock. Even through the wet swim trunks, Arthur can
feel the heat and bucks, panting, into the touch, unconsciously guiding Jake's
head down, down, down.
Jake chuckles, a hot puff of air gusting over Arthur's belly button, and pulls
Arthur's trunks down agonizingly slowly, fingernails a deliciously sharp drag
over Arthur's ass. When Arthur whimpers, Jake sucks a kiss into his hip, using
his teeth and tongue to raise a bruise there. "Don't worry Arthur, I'm gonna
take care of you."
Arthur looks down and his cock is hard and red and leaking, and Jake's mouth is
right there, his lips pink and damp. His tongue darts out and the tip of it
brushes the crown, smears through the precome, and Arthur can't close his mouth
against the, "I'm gonna come, I'm gonna come, fuck I'm gonna--"
And then Jake is on him -- he is in Jake -- his mouth hot and slick and obscene
where the lips stretch around Arthur. All Jake does is pull up, his tongue
dragging up the spine of Arthur's cock, and suckle at the head, teasing at the
slit with the tip of his tongue. Arthur has no time to warn him, wouldn't know
to do so if he did, before he's coming. Jake pumps him through it, taking
everything Arthur can give him, swallowing it, and Arthur thinks he might come
again just from that. From Jake thumbing at the corner of his mouth, catching
anything he might have missed and sucking it clean.
Arthur's legs can't hold him, they give out as soon as Jake's hand is no longer
on his hip, pinning him in place, and he sinks to the floor, Jake kneeling in
the vee of his legs. Jake leans forward to kiss him this time, really kiss him
with teeth and tongue and a salt-bitter taste. All Arthur can do is hang on,
his fingers threaded in the hair at Jake's nape. He can hear himself making
these needy little sounds in the back of his throat, and his cock twitches when
Jake's tongue slides against his own over and over again.
Jake slips an arm around Arthur's waist, pulls him up and close, so that Arthur
is sitting on Jake's knees, naked, and chest to chest with him. The heat of
Jake's body feels good, and Arthur shifts closer, hooking his arms around
Jake's neck. Jake growls in appreciation, sucking at Arthur's lip, his chin,
the hinge of his jaw.
His lips brush against Arthur's pulse again when he says, "You have no idea how
gorgeous you are, do you?"
A blush warms Arthur's face, and he's ridiculously glad Jake can't see it right
now. He shifts closer, tries to wrap his legs around Jake's waist when he feels
it; the hot, hard length pressing into his belly. He freezes, but Jake doesn't
notice. His hand is working its way between them, trying to get his shorts down
despite Arthur's weight pinning them in place.
Arthur leans back to give him room and Jake lets him, his face flushed and eyes
black when he finally gets enough room to free his cock. It's cut like
Arthur's, but a little longer and a little thicker. The head glistens in the
sunlight, precome sticky and leaking and, without even thinking it, Arthur's
hand is there, thumbing over the head where it peeks out from the circle of
Jake's fingers.
Jake groans Arthur's name, long and low and completely wrecked, and it spurs
Arthur on. He slots his fingers in between Jake's, lets Jake set the pace. He
startles when he presses his thumb under the head and Jake's whole body jerks.
He's chanting fuck fuck fuck, so Arthur does it again, and that's it. Jake is
coming in long streaks over Arthur's chest and stomach, breath rough and
stuttering.
Arthur slides back to the floor and watches Jake's eyes flutter shut, his
lashes two dark smudges against the fading red skin. He can't stop staring,
can't stop thinking about how gorgeous Jake looks like this, and desperately
wishes he knew what to do now. If it's still okay to touch, to kiss and taste
and want.
Jake answers it by reaching out for him, his thumb slicking over Arthur's
nipple and the come there. He raises it to Arthur's mouth, just watching, and
Arthur makes sure to keep eye contact with him as he takes it in, tonguing over
the whorls on the pad, sucking down to the knuckle. The taste isn't great, but
it's not the worst thing he's ever had (well, there was that time with the
goldfish). Jake's pupils go wide, and the pride arrows straight to Arthur's
cock. He's hard, again, and he wants. Wants Jake and his hands, his mouth, his
cock, on and in and all around him.
Jake smirks a little, his gaze dropping to Arthur's cock, his hand, too. The
one from Arthur's mouth. He drags his fingers through the mess and uses his own
come to slick his hand up and down Arthur's cock, slow and steady. Arthur wants
to thrust into it, but Jake pushes him back, stretching out next to him on the
cool tile, and pins Arthur down with his mouth and his chest.
He kisses Arthur like he jacks him off, slow and torturous, and chuckles at
every one of Arthur's whimpers. "Let me make it good, Arthur. So, so good."
And Arthur does. He can't not, all of his limbs loose and heavy, his hand in
Jake's hair serving no other purpose than to reassure Arthur that this isn't a
dream. Jake is there, tasting of come and sweat and chlorine, his chest a
reassuring weight on Arthur's, his hand slow and teasing on Arthur's cock.
Minutes pass, maybe hours, even. Days; it doesn't matter. Arthur doesn't care.
He wants to keep this feeling forever. His heart full, the tight tingling in
the base of his spine, the restless shifting of his legs. And then Jake, his
clever mouth right next to Arthur's ear say, "Come on, Arthur. Come for me."
And he does. Every muscle clenching, his mouth forming a silent 'O' that Jake
nips at, his hand carefully teasing the last of the orgasm out of Arthur.
They lay there for long moments, Arthur's ragged breathing the only sound in
the room. Jake is next to him, his head pillowed on his own arm, but tipped
towards Arthur's neck so that every exhale stirs the hair behind Arthur's ear.
Arthur shifts a little closer, seeking out the body heat, and Jake gathers him
close with a hand on Arthur's hip.
Arthur tries not to snuggle, but he can't help it. The tile is so cool and Jake
is so warm, and his ass fits perfectly in the cradle of Jake's hips, his head
not quite tucked under Jake's chin. He can't help the smile, either. Doesn't
want to. The floor is hard and cold and he's a sticky mess, but he would stay
there with Jake all night if that's what Jake wanted.
Of course, Jake eventually pulls away, pushing Arthur down when he tries to get
up, too. Arthur doesn't fight it or the yawn that follows, his eyes falling
shut after. He can hear Jake moving around, opening and closing a cabinet,
running water, then there's a wet heat at his groin, nothing like what Jake's
mouth felt like. He looks down and Jake's cleaning him up, careful of Arthur's
sensitive cock. He drags the washcloth up, pausing at the hip to thumb over the
skin there, and Arthur winces. There's a bruise, he can feel it, and he just
knows it's the exact shape of Jake's mouth, can't wait to look in the mirror
and see it for himself.
Jake's less careful with Arthur's belly and torso, but he circles the nipples
gently, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. For a second, Arthur's sure
Jake is going to dip down and taste him again, drag the flat of his tongue over
each hardened tip, but he doesn't. His fingertips skate down Arthur's side, and
then he bumps Arthur's hip with the back of his hand. "Good as new," he grins.
Arthur rolls onto his back as Jake stands, letting himself watch Jake at the
sink, rinsing the washcloth out to clean his own body off. There's a line low
on his hips where the skin above is dark and his ass, just below is ghostly
white. Next time, Arthur thinks to himself, I'm going to run my tongue along
that line.
Jake turns and offers Arthur a hand in getting up, his smile bright and warm.
He pulls Arthur to him with his hands on Arthur's hips, into the vee of his
legs, and kisses him, soft and quiet. When Arthur pulls away to breathe, Jake
presses their foreheads together. His breath ghosts over Arthur's lips as he
says, "You really are amazing, you know."
Arthur's silent, unsure how to respond, until Jake squeezes his hip. "Yeah,"
Arthur says finally, a little breathless. "You, too."
Jake laughs then, loud in the confined space, and he's hugging Arthur, arms
wrapped tight around Arthur's shoulders. "Bruise my ego why don't you?" But
Arthur looks at him and he's smiling, so Arthur smiles back.
"We'd better get back, though. Somebody's probably missing us." Arthur nods and
finds his trunks, can't stop himself from watching Jake bend over, his ass high
in the air. It's not far and if Arthur leaned over just a little bit, he could
bite it, leave his own mark...
But then the trunks are up, hiding the pale skin, and Jake is guiding Arthur
out into the kitchen as he detours for his bedroom. Arthur glances at the clock
before he steps outside and startles at the hour he lost in the bathroom.
Nobody says anything, though. He slips right back into the pool like nothing
happened, and is immediately challenged to a game of chicken.
It isn't until later, when everybody is toweling off to go home that Arthur
realizes he hasn't seen Jake since the bathroom. He doesn't ask, though. Knows
it would look weird. A week later, a week Arthur spends wondering and worrying
about how one follows up something like that, he shows up at Marcus' house for
another pool party and figures out what happened.
The day is so similar to the track team party that Arthur half expects Jake to
come walking out of the house at any time. But then he hears Marcus' mom
talking to one of the neighbors, hears Jake mentioned, and moves closer, hoping
nobody will notice that he's eavesdropping. He hears words like road trip, and
entire summer and girlfriend, and Arthur's stomach drops somewhere in the
vicinity of his feet.
He manages to make it through the rest of the party, though how he doesn't
know, and spends the first three weeks of his summer vacation bouncing between
work and Ariadne and Yusuf, drowning his sadness and confusion with pints of
Ben and Jerry's Cinnamon Buns. Eventually, he forgets Jake, as much as he can,
and puts some distance between himself and Marcus.
He doesn't quit the team, though. In fact, he throws everything into it after
that, making track and school and work his life. Ariadne and Yusuf think it's a
little unhealthy, but it's what gets him accepted at NYU (and everywhere else
he applies), so he can't much regret closing off his heart.
                                     : : :
After Arthur stows the last of his socks in the bureau, he glances at the clock
and is startled to see almost two hours have gone by. He throws his empty bags
into the closet and makes his way downstairs, heading straight for the kitchen.
Eames doesn't notice him at first, and Arthur takes advantage of it. He watches
Eames, still barefoot, move from the refrigerator to the sink to the center
island with ease, a graceful dance he's no doubt performed thousands of times
before.
Arthur frowns a little at the t-shirt Eames has put on, but the material's thin
enough to see the shadows of the tattoos underneath, and the way the material
stretches over his shoulders makes him seem even wider than before. It's short,
too; the hem just meeting the waistband of Eames' jeans, so that when he bends
over to retrieve a bowl from the cabinet, a wide strip of skin is exposed, a
teasing glimpse of Eames' tan line. Arthur's fingers itch with the desire to
find out what that skin feels like, if it's as warm and smooth as it looks.
Eames is deft with the knife, the blade glinting in the light as it slices
through a head of lettuce. He smiles at Eames' concentration, the way he bites
down on his lower lip even though he's just chopping up lettuce. Arthur wants
to put his thumb there, tug it free and run his tongue over the teethmarks.
Maybe suck on it a little to make it plump and rosy again.
Arthur stops that train of thought in its tracks, knowing he would never
survive dinner with a raging hard on. Nor does he have the time to take care of
it again.
He waits until Eames is done with the knife before he asks if he can help with
anything. Eames startles anyway, but at least he doesn't cut his finger off. He
points to the rest of the vegetables on the counter. "You could finish the
salad. I've got to get the steaks on the grill."
Since it doesn't involve heat or the stove in any way, Arthur's fairly
confident in his abilities. Eames passes by Arthur on his way out, but doesn't
touch him, and the only sound he makes is the quiet rumble of the screen in its
track. A cool breeze carries the chorus of crickets into the house and raises
goose bumps on Arthur's arms and legs while he works.
With the salad done and the table set, there's nothing left for Arthur to do
but wait for Eames. He flounders for something to do, anything really. Thinks
about looking in the fridge for something to drink (maybe even a beer, he muses
silently), but doesn't yet feel comfortable enough for that. He could sit at
the table and wait, but that could seem too pushy and demanding. The TV in the
living room could use a little investigating, but that feels too lazy teenager.
He finally decides to join Eames on the deck where he's watching the fireflies
flit around in the dimming sun. The lake is a pink-purple sheet of glass, still
but for the low wake of the occasional pontoon boat returning to dock. Once
outside, Arthur can hear frogs accompanying the crickets and a coyote howling
in the distance, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
Eames chuckles low from the shadows, the whites of his eyes eerily bright. "You
won't have to worry about them."
"Them?"
"There are a few, yeah. But the lake's too populated, they tend to stay away. I
have a shotgun, though, just in case. Not that I've ever had to use it." He
pauses, then adds, "Here, anyway."
Arthur quirks an eyebrow, prompting Eames to explain further, but he's facing
away from Arthur, opening the grill and flipping the steaks. When he closes it,
Eames is quiet again, arms folded across his broad chest, tongs tucked in the
crook of his elbow. Arthur lets him have his silence.
With his back against the wall, Arthur closes his eyes and focuses on the night
sounds, can pick out the blue jay screeches from the trilling chickadees
finishing up their meals before it's the owl's turn to reign. Despite living in
the city with only traffic noise for a lullaby, Arthur finds himself soothed,
even manages to doze for a few minutes. Eames taps him on the arm as he walks
by, the steaks on a plate in one hand, two bundles of foil in the other. Arthur
gets the door for him, easily catching the tongs when they fall from where
they're tucked under Eames' arm.
After setting the food down, one foil-wrapped mystery for each plate, Eames
gets a pitcher of iced tea from the fridge and two glasses from an overhead
cabinet. Arthur watches it all in rapt attention, making sure to get the lay of
the land as quickly as possible so he isn't asking Eames inane questions every
five minutes.
Eames motions for them both to sit down, and gestures toward the food. "You
should know I'm not used to cooking for other people, so you'll have to bear
with me."
Arthur digs into the salad first, heaping two huge scoops onto his plate. "As
long as you don't ask me to help with anything more than chopping and dicing, I
can handle anything."
"Not a chef?" Eames asks, adding a little sugar to his tea. Arthur does the
same.
"I'm good with my hands, uh, but not in that capacity." Arthur blushes a little
at the innuendo and doesn't look at Eames to see if he notices. "My sisters
were only too happy to do it, anyway."
Eames nods and smiles, "Mine too, but our cook made sure everybody learned,
so..." He shrugs, unwraps the foil and reveals a baked potato. "Turned out to
be a good thing, I suppose."
Arthur cuts into his steak, the knife slicing through it like butter. He nods
and smiles at Eames, indicating he likes it, then tucks into his potato, adding
butter, sour cream, and pepper. They eat for awhile in silence, Arthur stealing
glances at Eames when he thinks Eames isn't looking. Gets the tingly feeling in
his scalp that maybe Eames is doing the same.
After long minutes, when Arthur is chewing around a mouthful of salad, Eames
clears his throat and sets his fork down. "So, Arthur." He pauses to let Arthur
swallow. "Care to tell me more about yourself?"
Arthur's eyebrows arch. "Like what?"
"I dunno," he shrug, gesturing vaguely with a hand that Arthur can't keep his
eyes off of. "What you like, what you do? That sort of thing."
Arthur smirks. "Small talk, then?" he asks, even though his mind traitorously
whispers first date talk. Eames leans forward, elbows on the table, and nods.
Arthur mimics the movement and ticks each point off on his fingers. "Well, I'm
a Capricorn. I like long walks on the beach, organization, and books. I dislike
assholes, global warming, and being treated like I'm five. My favorite movie is
Notorious or The Empire Strikes Back, depending on the day. I like music, any
music." He pauses to think. "My turn-offs include narcissism, hairy knuckles
and too much tongue. My turn-ons are cuddlers, intelligence, and a good
cologne."
He gasps a little after he says the last part, realizing too late that he's
basically outed himself to a virtual stranger.
Eames doesn't seem to register it, though. Just grins and shakes his head,
drops his gaze to his plate to mop up the last of his potato with a piece of
steak. "Right. So, on a scale of one to ten, how happy are you to be here?"
Arthur slants him a look through thick lashes. "About a four," he answers
honestly. "Which is up from the one I was feeling all the way down here."
"Oh?" Eames leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, eyebrows
raised expectantly.
"Yeah, well, I knew the house and the lake would be gorgeous and peaceful. But
you." Arthur shrugs one shoulder, not looking at Eames as he continues, "I
pictured you more Dick Cheney, less Matt Damon." He tries to keep a straight
face, but is sure the slight quirk of his mouth deepens the dimple on one side,
giving him away.
Eames laughs then, a loud, full sound that has him tipping his head back,
exposing the long column of his throat. Arthur smiles wide, too, gaze stuck on
the bounce of Eames' Adam's apple, the dull glow of the skin there. Arthur
wants to lick it, see how salty Eames tastes. He settles for licking his own
lips instead. It isn't anywhere near the same, he's sure.
He's still smiling as Eames quiets, one hand wiping at his eyes. It freezes
mid-swipe -- Eames' whole body freezes -- and he's looking at Arthur's face,
eyes wide, mouth slack.
Arthur frowns and wipes at his cheek. "What is it? Do I have potato on my
face?"
"No, I..." Eames clears his throat and his voice strengthens. He points a
finger at his own cheek. "The dimples. They make you look sinfully young."
"Oh, yeah. The dimples." Arthur drops his eyes as he feels the blush spread,
can only imagine how red he must look. The dimples that everybody adores are
often more trouble than they're worth. Arthur still gets carded sometimes when
he tries to rent an R-rated movie. It's kinda ridiculous.
Finally, he looks up and Eames is still staring at him, his eyes soft and fond.
"I didn't mean anything by it, Arthur. I rather like them, actually."
Arthur can't stop the smile this time, ducks his head so Eames won't see the
heat in his cheeks. "Yeah, well," his shoulder lifts and falls, "It's not like
I can do anything about them, anyway." Eames hums in agreement, and they both
fall silent, Arthur crunching on the last of his salad.
They remain that way, in a half-awkward silence, until Arthur finishes. Arthur
helps to clear the table, Eames pointing out where all the condiments belong,
and Arthur elects to dry the dishes as Eames washes.
Arthur is leaning against the counter, towel in one hand, eyes unseeing when
Eames speaks again. "What would you be doing?"
Arthur stills, confused. "What?"
"If you weren't here, what would you be doing?"
"Oh, right." Arthur smiles, a little sad, though not as much as before. "I'd be
in Rehoboth Beach with my friends, doing what teenagers do best: getting drunk
and having sex." The having sex part may be a lie, but Arthur figures Eames
doesn't need to know that.
Eames grins at him from over his shoulder. "Your mum made you leave a beautiful
girl behind?"
Arthur barks a laugh. "Not exactly."
"A strapping young lad, then?" he teases with a wink. But his shoulders are
stiff, Arthur can see, and his hand slows on the plate it's scrubbing.
Arthur's voice is softer as he says, "No, not one of those either." He hides a
smile behind his hand when Eames relaxes and nods, muttering of bloody course
under his breath.
With just a few dishes left, they finish in silence, and Arthur follows him
into the living room, unsure where things go from here. Eames makes a beeline
for the television and Arthur slows, interested to see what Eames plans to
watch. Instead of a remote, Eames is fiddling with some cords, and Arthur
smirks as he realizes what they're for. "An Xbox? Really?"
"It helps get the creative juices flowing," Eames says.
He seems sincere, but Arthur holds his gaze to see if Eames will break. He
doesn't.
"What game are you playing?" Arthur asks eventually, nearing Eames and the knot
he's fighting with. Arthur places a hand on Eames' arm and takes over, easily
fixing the tangled mess.
"Call of Duty. Do you play?"
Arthur nods. "A little. My friend, Yusuf? We play sometimes."
Eames gestures for Arthur to sit next to him on the sofa. "Well, let's get on,
then!"
It's fun playing with him, Arthur finds. Other than the fact that he
accidentally kills Arthur more than once because he's not used to playing with
others, Eames isn't afraid of trading trash talk with Arthur; Yusuf was always
far more into the strategizing part of the game to actually have fun.
After a couple of hours, Eames is tired of Arthur's superiority, so he starts
FIFA soccer 11, which Arthur loses handily over and over again. He doesn't last
more than an hour and tries to head upstairs for bed then, but Eames talks him
into one more game, one where they're both on even footing.
Arthur arches a brow when Eames suggests Ms Pac-man and Eames blushes. It's
horribly endearing and Arthur loves it.
"It's my sister's," Eames explains, slipping the disc into the console. "Home
away from home, remember?" Arthur chuckles but doesn't tease, doesn't comment
either on how hard Eames concentrates, or by how wide a margin he beats Arthur.
They're both yawning wide when Arthur realizes it's after midnight, and he
suddenly feels impossibly tired. He helps Eames clean up the game and their tea
glasses, and says good night to Eames from the bottom of the stairs.
"Good night, love," Eames shoots back, casual and warm, but Arthur sees his
hand stutter at the light switch.
Arthur doesn't say a word, is desperate not to react in any way, even though he
can feel the weight of Eames' gaze on him all the way up the stairs. It's not
until he rounds the corner and strips down, opens the windows wide and crawls
under the thick covers that he smiles to himself, dimples and all.
***** Chapter 2 *****
The world outside Arthur's window seems to be in full swing when the alarm on
his phone goes off. He hits the snooze, as usual, and lets himself drift for
the five minutes, the birds outside a pleasant background noise to his thoughts
of the night before.
It hadn't been as awkward as it could've been, he decides. Meeting and
basically moving in with a complete stranger for three months not being the
typical college student's summer experience. Eames' age helps, of course. Even
though they are a healthy fourteen years apart, they still have just enough
common experiences and cultural knowledge to carry on a conversation with only
the bare minimum of strained silences.
The area isn't bad, either. At first, getting into bed and hearing nothing but
crickets had been a little disconcerting. Arthur was sure he'd need the sounds
of a city surrounding him to be lulled into sleep. He'd flopped around a little
bit at first, trying to find the sweet spot. But once he did, he slipped right
to sleep. And waking up without the roar and screech of city garbage trucks was
a nice change of pace, too.
He rolls over to look out the windows, the morning sky lit up in pale pinks and
yellows. A flock of ducks comes in from one side, and disappears beyond the
sill of the windows, presumably landing on the lake for some breakfast and a
bath. The peace is nice, and Arthur loves the feeling of breathing in the fresh
air when he takes a deep breath.
Finally, Arthur throws the blankets back and sits up, the cool air raising
goose bumps on his skin. From here, he can see the ducks on the water, tiny
black specks bobbing on the glittering, golden surface. Scratching his stomach,
he approaches the window and studies the landscape, taking in the vegetable
garden he'd found Eames working in yesterday. He can't pick out the specific
plants, but guesses there are tomatoes and peppers. And the tentative vines in
between them a cucumber or other squash.
The rest of the yard is mostly a natural landscape. There are gardens marked
off, but it looks a little slapdash, like Eames threw all the plants in the air
and planted them where they landed. Arthur's fingers itch to clean it up, make
it neater and more structured. He lets it go for now, though, his gaze falling
back to the lake.
A seawall stretches for as far as he can see. He figures it probably runs along
the entire lake, a convenient and picturesque walking path for tourists and
residents alike. It looks good for jogging, too, if a little more meandering
than Arthur prefers for his daily run. It's still better than running on the
narrow and deserted county roads he wound through to get here.
After a quick wash up in the bathroom, Arthur digs out his favorite pair of
running shorts and an old Annapolis Panthers t-shirt from the bureau. They've
both seen better days, the hems of the red shorts fraying and the t-shirt worn
thin and a little small, but they're comfortable and remind him of home.
Grabbing his sneakers from the closet, he makes his way down the stairs,
keeping as quiet as possible in his stocking feet. He's almost out the back
door when Eames emerges from the hallway and startles him.
"Running away already?"
Arthur shrugs and ducks his head to hide his grin. "You know how it is. Feed a
guy delicious food, let him play a little Xbox, then give him a decadent bed to
sleep in... Why would he want to stick around?"
Eames approaches him wearing a pair of basketball shorts and a white,
sleeveless undershirt, which shows off more tattoos than it hides. "Going out
for a jog, then?" Arthur nods. "Great minds. I was about to do the same. I
could show you around a little, tell you who to avoid, yeah?"
He bends over to re-tie one of his shoes and Arthur swallows hard, eyes roaming
over all the exposed skin. It's going to be a distraction, he's sure, but he
also needs to get the lay of the land as quickly as possible so he's not too
dependent on Eames. It's a harder choice to make than it should be.
"Yeah," he sighs, turning away before Eames stands up. "Ok."
                                     : : :
Jogging with Eames is not as hard as it could be. Arthur shortens his strides
to help stay on pace with him, and Eames seems to know how to maintain a proper
distance so they aren't getting tangled up in each other. He also doesn't try
to talk much, other than to point out the things he feels Arthur should know,
and Arthur appreciates that, too.
As they jog, Arthur learns a little bit about his new neighbors; Mrs. Braddock
the ass pincher and Mr. Jenkins' dog, Killer, the rottweiler who is all bark
and no bite. The Radigans three doors down from Eames with the two nightmarish
brats and Dr. Wallace who retired to the lake after his wife passed away.
In between each house, Eames is quiet. Life around the lake is, too, and Arthur
revels in it. It's not much different from his cross-country track meets, only
the sea wall is more stable terrain, he doesn't have to worry about tree
branches smacking him in the face, and there isn't a pack of high schoolers hot
on his heels. Arthur counts all the differences as wins.
Eames starts down-shifting, and Arthur along with him, when a large playground
comes into view. It's empty this early in the morning, but Arthur can imagine
it teeming with shrieking children and harried parents. There's a water
fountain that Arthur makes use of, then turns to watch the ducks waddle about
while Eames gets a drink, too.
"This is where I usually head back," Eames says, using the bottom of his shirt
to wipe at his mouth. Arthur's eyes dip at the glimpse of skin, the sliver of
black ink peeking out. His fingers twitch, wanting to skim over the skin, push
the shirt up and memorize the tattoo. He studies the wall ahead of them,
instead. "I think I'll stick around here. Do some sprints on the straight-
away." He motions to a spot further along and Eames turns to look. When he
looks back, he's squinting at Arthur, his lips red and pursed. Arthur wants to
suck at one and see if it's really as soft as it looks.
Eames smirks. "Think you can find your way home?"
Arthur gives him a dark look, his lips a thin, firm line.
"Alright, alright." Eames chuckles. "Just don't hurt yourself. The people
around here are more likely to push you in the water than save you." He gives
Arthur a wink and a backhand slap on the hip. "See you at the house!"
Arthur lets himself watch Eames jog away, his exposed skin glistening with
sweat. The way his tattoos shift with the pumping of his arms is hypnotic, and
it isn't until a duckling waddles over and starts pecking at his shoelaces that
Arthur snaps out of it.
He jogs over to the straight away and does ten back-and-forths, just to get his
heart rate up. It gets him sweaty too, making his t-shirt cling to his skin. He
pulls it off and tucks it into the waistband of his shorts, at the small of his
back. The slight lake breeze feels good on his over-heated skin as he sets of
for Eames' house at his normal pace.
With his long legs eating up the ground like it's nothing, it doesn't take long
for Eames to come into view. Eames, too, is shirtless, the white material of
his t-shirt hanging out of his shorts, flapping at his side. Arthur's feet
stutter at the sight, and he slows down automatically to enjoy the view. Arthur
supposes he should be taking in the beauty of the lake before everything comes
awake, but he just can't tear his eyes away from all that skin, the way it
glides effortlessly over the muscles of Eames' back.
Well, until his gaze slides down to Eames' ass, the nylon material of his
shorts sweat-drenched and clinging. Arthur squints and feels a sharp stab of
want in his gut. There's no jiggle there, only sleek, taut muscles that beg for
Arthur's mouth, his teeth. Saliva pools under his tongue at the thought of it.
Arthur is so enthralled, he misses a crack in the wall and almost faceplants on
the cement. So much for stable terrain. He picks his pace back up again, and
passes Eames easily, taking away temptation.
Ten minutes later, Eames' house is looming in the distance, and Arthur slows
down automatically. His arms and legs and lungs are burning, but he revels in
it, uses his shirt to wipe the sweat out of his eyes. He faces the lake to do
his stretches, his arms burning even more when he reaches above his head and
rolls up onto his toes, stretching both the biceps and his calves.
Arthur is just finishing up his routine as Eames comes into view. The broad
shape of him looks oddly graceful from this distance. Arthur turns away before
Eames gets too close, eyes the lake so it doesn't look like he's been ogling
Eames. He stops just short of running into Arthur, bare chest heaving as it
works hard for fresh oxygen. Arthur watches from the corner of his eye,
slightly leaning into Eames' warmth.
They're both quiet for long moments, Eames stretching when he finally gets his
breath back, and then Arthur's toeing off his shoes and socks, and drops his
shirt on top of them. "We can swim in this lake, right?"
"Yes, but I--"
Arthur's running before Eames finishes saying yes, and cannonballs into the
lake with no finesse whatsoever. The second he's in, he's struggling back out,
the water colder than he'd expected. "Jesus fuck that's cold!" he sputters,
flailing his arms to right himself. He glares at Eames above him, bent over and
laughing so hard he can't even talk. With one arm straightened, he tries to
make a wave of water, high enough to drench Eames, but it doesn't work. The
wall is too high and Eames is just out of reach.
Now that Arthur's in, pride keeps him from getting out so soon. Pride and the
fact that the more he moves, the more accustomed to the temperature he becomes.
He dog-paddles away from the wall, giving himself enough space so that if his
laps are crooked, he won't be scraping concrete, and treads water. By the time
Arthur is comfortable, Eames has collapsed onto a sunny patch of grass and is
leaning back on his elbows, feet flat on the ground. The sunlight glints off
his sweaty skin, distorting the tattoos on his chest and he's run a hand
through his hair several times, so it's all damp with sweat and slicked flat
against his scalp. Arthur wants to settle in his lap and mess it all up again.
Instead, he sighs and starts swimming.
He's not an avid swimmer, but with all of his neighbors having pools, he knows
the basics, and his long arms and legs help him slice through the water with
relative ease. Each lap gets a twenty-five count before he turns back, so he
doesn't get far on each one, but he wants to stay out of the way of the fishing
boats in the no-wake zone, so it works. He doesn't keep track of how many he
does, just stops when his arms and legs start to feel like jello.
The ladder up the wall is old and rusty in spots, and Arthur would really like
to hustle his way up, but his limbs are tired and his shorts feel
disproportionately heavy now that they're wet. Each rung seems miles away, and
when he finally surfaces, he feels like he's going to fall over. It's a feeling
he enjoys, despite the exhaustion. It signals a job well done, which is always
Arthur's main goal. He bends over for one last stretch of his back, palms flat
on the concrete in front of him, then laces his fingers together and reaches up
over his head again, rolling up on his toes. It makes him feel longer than he
is, doing this stretch.
Arthur pivots a little, so he can see Eames out of the corner of his eye, and
his chest flares when he realizes Eames is staring at him. He reaches out even
farther, tries to get higher on his toes, too, just too see how Eames reacts,
when a healthy gust of wind sends a chill over his ass and up his spine. His
stretch collapses in an instant, his hands falling to the waistband of his
shorts, which are just barely clinging to the slight flare of his hips. There's
a glimpse of coarse, dark hair as he looks down and his face burns white hot.
Yanking his shorts back into place, he mumbles an apology and stumbles over to
the pile of stuff he left on the wall. He can barely get out, "See you back at
the house," as he snatches his things up, and has to force himself not to run
back to the house, embarrassment overriding his exhaustion.
Later, in the shower, with one hand flat on the wall and the other fisted tight
around his cock, Arthur jerks off to the memory of all that skin and the way
Eames watched him with dark, hooded eyes.
                                     : : :
During breakfast, Arthur decides he wants to go into town to explore, now that
life has picked up around the lake and all of the shops are open for the
season. He also wants to do a little grocery shopping, after having poked
around in Eames' cupboards for something to eat. It'll show Eames that Arthur
doesn't plan on mooching off him, plus he figures he'll run into a few of the
lake's residents at the same time. He pokes his head into Eames' office to let
him know he's leaving, but all he finds is an empty room. His curiosity gets
the better of him and he steps inside to investigate.
The outside wall, like all of the rest of the rooms in the house, is lined with
windows offering a spectacular view of the lake. On that wall sits a massive
mahogany desk with short piles of papers scattered about. Arthur isn't nosy
enough to see what's written on them; they'll get to that subject eventually,
and Arthur would rather hear it from Eames than snoop for information. The
other three walls are lined with matching mahogany bookcases, stuffed to the
gills with books of every size and color. Arthur scans some of the spines,
smiling at titles like The_Art_of_War and Freakonomics, frowning at The
Hitchhiker's_Guide_to_the_Galaxy and a well-worn copy of Baudelaire's Les
Fleurs_du_mal.
Arthur turns to the middle of the room and the two massive leather sofas that
sit there facing each other, a round coffee table set between them. It's looks
cozy in a way nothing else in the house does, which is saying something because
a cabin in the woods is supposed to be cozy by sheer definition. But Arthur can
imagine spending a lot of time in here, the warm glow of the floor lamp just
over his shoulder, reading for hours on end. Or, even better, editing his first
book with his feet propped up on the table, Eames sitting on the opposite sofa,
trying to distract Arthur by nudging at his feet.
"Getting a little ahead of yourself, Arthur?" he says to himself, chuckling.
"What's so funny?" Arthur spins to find Eames leaning against the door jamb.
He's in a threadbare t-shirt and scuffed up jeans, feet bare. A smudge of
grease mars his cheek and his hands are stained, too. It's a miracle, really,
that Eames' shirt -- claiming to be property of Warner Bros -- isn't
irreparably damaged as well.
For all of Arthur's fastidiousness, he shouldn't find it as sexy as he does.
And he wonders, distantly, how long it'll take him to get over wanting to jump
Eames every five minutes.
"What? I-- Nothing. I was looking for you." He watches Eames push off the wall
with his shoulder and backs up on instinct, not wanting to get any grease on
his own clothes.
Eames notices the movement and smirks, pulls a shoddy towel from his back
pocket and uses it to try to wipe his hands off. "And that's funny?"
Arthur frowns. "No, nothing's funny. It doesn't matter." He clears his throat
and waves a hand at the bookshelves around him, desperate to change the
subject. "Nice collection."
Eames looks it over, eyes fond. "I like to think it is."
"No system, though."
"Don't really need one." He shrugs, skimming his fingers over the nearest
shelf.
Arthur frowns a little. "Then how am I supposed to find what I'm looking for?"
Eames chuckles and plucks a book from the shelf. It's Christine by Stephen
King. He thumbs through the pages, then hands it to Arthur, his fingertips
brushing over Arthur's as he pulls his hand away. "Your eyes, Arthur. All you
have to do is look and you'll find something."
Arthur shakes his head, tries to scowl, and has to duck his head so Eames won't
catch sight of his dimples. When he gets himself under control, he waves his
free hand over the shelves and asks, "Where are yours?"
Lips pursed, Eames peruses the shelves. Arthur watches Eames' finger tap
against his lips until he finds what he's looking for. He hands it to Arthur,
taking back Christine and slipping it into the slot his own book had just
occupied. "Here's my first. Start with the worst and work your way up."
Arthur doesn't look up from the back when he asks, "Fantasy?" He misses Eames'
slightly offended look.
"Did nobody tell you a thing about me?!"
Arthur hums and looks up, confused. "Oh, no I-- Yes, I knew you were a fantasy
author. I did research you, I'm not stupid. It must've slipped my mind."
"You researched me?" Eames purrs, leering. Arthur shouldn't find the cockiness
hot.
He lifts and drops one shoulder. "I like to be prepared. You grew up outside of
London, attended university in Paris, where you were published for the first
time. Five books later, all of them best sellers, and here you are, in the
wilds of Virginia." He scratches the back of his neck, the hand holding the
book hanging limp at his side. "Come to think of it, why are you living here in
the wilds of Virginia?"
"Doesn't matter," Eames says, waving away the question. "All that information
only tells you what I am, not who. Is there nothing else you know?"
"All I was told is that our aunts are good friends."
"Sister, actually." Arthur arches a brow at him and Eames clarifies. "My
sister, your aunt.
Arthur shrugs. "Sister, aunt, whatever. They went to school together and now
they work together." He looks up then, and feels a little bad for how insulted
Eames looks. "Does it really matter? It's not your writing technique I'm here
for."
Eames crosses his arms over his chest and his eyes narrow, pinning Arthur in
place like some exotic butterfly specimen. "Just what are you here for then?"
When Arthur swallows, it sounds loud in his own ears. He hopes it's just his
imagination. He tries for nonchalant as he says, "Networking. And to get away
from my sisters."
Eames places a flat palm over his own chest, and Arthur winces at the thought
of the greasy fingerprints it'll leave behind. "Arthur, Arthur." He shakes his
head. "You wound me."
"It's the truth, though, isn't it?"
"Yes, yes. Of course it doesn't matter that I write fantasy and you're a
heathen." He rolls his eyes. "It just narrows down topics of conversation.
Pity."
Arthur's smile is more than a little patronizing, he's sure. "I think we'll get
by. There's always Call of Duty."
"And Ms. Pac-man," Eames adds, grinning.
"And jogging." Eames nods, and they both lock eyes. Arthur's chest feels heavy
with the memory of Eames' back and legs working. The sun making the sweat on
his skin glisten. Blue eyes gone dark with intent.
Eames' eyes flare for an instant, and then he's clearing his throat and turning
away from Arthur. "You said you were looking for me?"
"I...uh, yeah." He hooks a hand around his neck and turns away. "I was going to
head into town, do some of grocery shopping, a little exploring. I wanted to
see if you needed anything while I'm out."
"Oh. That reminds me." Eames approaches the desk and opens the slim middle
drawer, plucks something out and turns to Arthur, a bit of brass glinting from
his fingers. "I need to give you this, just in case."
Arthur stares at the key, mouth working open and shut. Finally gets out, "I
doubt I'll be needing to get in your house when you're not in it."
Eames shrugs. "You never know. Just-- Take it. Just in case."
He tugs Arthur's hand open and presses the key into his palm. It's warm from
Eames' grip and Arthur closes his fist around it a little tighter than
necessary. There is a smudge of grease at the base of his thumb from Eames, and
Arthur finds it difficult to look away from it. "Yeah, okay. Thanks." His voice
is thick and he tries to swallow around the odd lump in his throat, but doesn't
quite manage. "So, do you need anything?" he finally gets out, not looking up.
"Actually, how about I go with you? I could stand to get out of the house, pick
up a few things. I could help with introductions, too."
"As long as I get to drive."
Eames grin is wide. "Do I sense a little control freak in you, Arthur?"
"No," he answers with a small scowl. "It just helps me get to know the area.
Can't depend on you to drive me everywhere."
"Makes sense," Eames says, nodding. Arthur watches him reach for a set of keys
then stop. Eames turns his hand palm up and he laughs a little, shows Arthur
his grease-smudged hands as if Eames is just realizing he's dirty for the first
time. "Let me just wash up. Meet you outside?" He starts stripping his shirt
off just before he walks out the door, and Arthur waits for a count of ten
before following. He doesn't think about why he still has Eames' book in his
hand when he leaves.
                                     : : :
Arthur's sitting in his car in the driveway just outside the door when Eames
finally emerges, face and hands freshly scrubbed, wearing the same ripped jeans
and a new shirt. He's also wearing a pair of aviators, and Arthur discovers yet
another new kink he didn't know he had. Arthur hadn't planned on this summer
being one long masturbatory marathon, but with the way things are heading, he's
going to need to invest in an obscene amount of lube. Or strip the skin off his
cock.
He makes a note to pick up more lube at the store. If he can escape Eames for
five minutes.
Eames walks right past his car at first, heading for the garage, and Arthur
honks his horn. It startles Eames and he spins, mouth agape when he sees
Arthur's tiny Smart Car parked in the shade. He approaches slowly, looking from
one end to the other and back again which, Arthur admits, is not that far of a
distance.
He rests one arm above the passenger side window and leans down to look at
Arthur, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Aren't you a little old
for Match Box cars?"
Arthur bristles. "It's a Smart Car. I'm the only one drives it, and it more
than meets my vehicular needs."
"Vehicular?" Eames parrots, nearly laughing.
"Yes, vehicular. Would you just get in already?" Arthur leans over to open the
door for him and Eames steps back with a flourish.
He sticks his head in the car one more time, looking over the backseat, and
flops down in the seat with an 'oof.' "You realize I weigh more than this car
does?"
Arthur quietly murmurs, "Not bloody likely." He notices his slip of the tongue
too late, after they've pulled out onto the main road, and tries to cover by
turning the radio louder.
Eames catches it anyway and his whole face lights up. "Am I rubbing off on you
already?" Arthur's cheeks burn. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Eames
rubbing his hands together gleefully. "Maybe there's hope for you yet."
There's no traffic around them, so Arthur turns to Eames, brow arched. "What,
exactly, is that supposed to mean?"
"Relax Arthur, I only mean we need to loosen you up a little." He drops his
hand onto Arthur's knee, his palm hot even through the fabric of his pants, and
Arthur stiffens. "See what I mean?" He shakes the leg a little, long enough for
Arthur's tension to ease. The skin feels too cold after Eames takes his hand
back.
He lets out a low, quiet breath as Eames continues. "I mean, do you even own a
t-shirt?"
Arthur looks down at his clothes and scoffs. "What does my wardrobe have to do
with anything?
"Well." Eames gives him one long look up and down. Arthur side-eyes him and
sees Eames' tongue slip out to wet his lips. "I admit I don't know many
teenagers, but I imagine they don't all dress like this."
"There's nothing wrong with the way I dress," Arthur says, scowling.
"I'm not saying there is, Arthur. In fact, you look quite splendid. I'm just
saying how many of your mates would go grocery shopping wearing a pink
sweatshirt over an oxford and a pair of trousers?" He squints and leans in,
getting a better look at Arthur's shoes. "Are those top-siders?"
Arthur flushes. "These are cargo pants, thank you. And is it so wrong to want
to look nice?"
"Tailored cargo pants, then."
"Still cargo pants."
"Be that as it may, you would have been fine in jeans and a t-shirt. There is
nobody around here you need to impress. Least of all me."
Silently, Arthur disagrees. "I'm not trying to impress anybody. I just prefer
not to look like a slob. That's acceptable, right? Part of making myself at
home?"
"Yes, fine. I take it back. You don't need to loosen up." He settles back into
his seat, face turned to the window, and Arthur finds it hard not stare at his
profile. The lack of traffic on the back country road doesn't help matters.
They manage in silence for awhile, the quiet broken every so often by the
rustle of Eames' clothes as he fidgets in his seat. Arthur tries to ignore it,
but in the closeness of the car, Eames is right there and his arm keeps
brushing against Arthur's and it's more than a little maddening.
Finally, Arthur snaps. "Would you sit still?!"
Eames sighs and thumps his head against the seat back. "I don't see why you
couldn't have driven my car this one time. I'm fairly confident you're
responsible enough for it."
"I am, but you don't know me near well enough to know that." He pauses, then
adds, "And there's nothing wrong with my car. It's more energy efficient."
Eames is again twisting in his seat to scan the back. All six feet of it. "Are
you sure there's going to be enough room for the groceries?"
"We're buying for two, Mr. Eames. Not an army."
"Just Eames, thank you," Eames says, voice flat. “Mr. Eames is my
father. Actually, he's Dr. Eames.” He frowns, glances at the back again,
then at the clear blue sky through the window and sighs. "Such a pity, wasting
this brilliant day in a car with a roof."
"Eames." Arthur warns, tightening his fingers on the steering wheel to keep
from thumping Eames on the thigh.
It's another twenty minutes of Eames fidgeting and muttering under his breath,
and Arthur doing everything he can not to pull over and make Eames walk before
they get to the store. In the parking lot, Arthur stands outside the car for a
minute, breathing deep. Even here, closer to civilization, the air is crisp and
clear. A little heavy with moisture from the lake, but not in an oppressive
way. Eames heads for the store, and Arthur follows, taking in the little bit he
can see of the town.
It's quaint; for as much as Arthur hates that word, it fits. The store fronts
are aged and homey, each one unique and quiet in their presence. In between
them are large patches of grass dotted with trees and flowers. Squirrels and
birds flit everywhere, too, seemingly unafraid of the people walking by. Behind
the store, the lake glitters blue, a mere sliver of it visible through the tree
trunks.
The grocery store itself is just as worn-looking as all the other buildings,
the wooden planks faded to a patchy pale brown. A sign hangs above the door,
quiet and unassuming. No neon lights advertising twenty-four hour service or
ice cold Coors Light. Arthur's starting to consider the idea that he won't be
finding anything organic in here, and he wilts slightly.
Which is probably why Eames is standing just inside the door, a patronizing
sort of smile on his face. "We're not back country hicks, Arthur. You'll find
more than just eggs and milk and lard here."
"Actually, I'm more afraid they won't have any Jägermeister. It's the only
thing that'll give me a decent buzz." He brushes past Eames, struggling to keep
a straight face, and grabs a cart. As he waits for Eames to catch up, Arthur
takes in the rest of the store to get the lay of the land.
It looks just as sleek and stylish as the new Whole Foods he's been shopping
at. At the front of the store, the smell of fresh bread hangs heavy in the air
and the produce department is especially vibrant and colorful, as if someone
polished each individual piece to a high shine. Beyond that, the meat cases
gleam in the warm lighting. From here, Arthur can see an intricate meat and
cheese platter on display.
"See anything you like?" a voice purrs, warm and silky, against his ear.
There's a heavy hand at the small of his back, too, so that when he turns to
look, Eames' face is only a breath away. From this close, Arthur can see the
flecks of midnight blue in Eames' eyes, count each individual eyelash and
measure their length, feel Eames' breath, damp and cool, gust against the
corner of his own mouth.
He licks his lips and Eames' eyes drop to track the movement. His pupils
dilate, wide and dark; his breath hitches. His lips twitch, too, and, for one
crazy moment, Arthur thinks (hopes) Eames is going to lean in and kiss him. But
then Eames blinks, drags his gaze back up to meet Arthur's, and he's taking a
step back. Arthur immediately misses Eames' warmth, the weight of the hand on
his back.
"Where to first, then?" Eames asks, not looking at Arthur as he tries to take
control of the cart.
Arthur pulls a list from his pocket so that he has something to look at other
than Eames' thick, capable fingers wrapped around the handle. "I'm here mostly
for fruits and vegetables. Some non-perishables, too." He flips the list over,
checking to make sure he doesn't miss anything, even though he only wrote it an
hour before and knows exactly what he wants without it. "What proteins were you
thinking of getting?"
The cart comes to a sudden stop and Arthur lets out a little 'oof' when it
catches him in the stomach. He looks at Eames, annoyed. "What?"
Eames glances from Arthur to the list and back again, and chuckles. "You are
not a real boy!"
If it were anyone else, Arthur might be offended. Insulted even. But there's no
malice in Eames' eyes. Only a soft fondness. One corner of his mouth quirks
when Arthur says, "I guess that makes you Geppetto, then."
"Pet names already Arthur?" he teases, winking. "It's not the best I've ever
heard, but I've certainly been called worse. It'll do, darling."
A warmth blooms in his chest that makes him feel airy, light. His hand
twitches, wanting to press down on it, as if he doesn't he'll float away.
Instead, he wraps long fingers around the cart handle and watches Eames grab a
second.
"I think we'd work better on our own, yeah?" He points to the hand not
clutching at the shopping cart. "I don't do lists."
"Why don't we split up and meet back at the registers in thirty minutes?"
Eames considers it, then says, "Better make it forty-five, I like to take my
time. I don't live life by lists."
"Fine," Arthur huffs. "Forty-five minutes."
Arthur's not surprised when he shows up five minutes later than planned and
Eames still isn't there. It makes it easier to get through paying for his
groceries. At least he doesn't have to wait too long for Eames to appear. He
gives Arthur's bags a disapproving look.
"I would've paid for that."
Arthur shrugs. "I planned on paying my own way, anyway. I'm a guest. And I have
very specific tastes." He smiles to prove it really is no big deal.
While the checker scans Eames items, he takes a peek at Arthur's groceries.
"Stone rolled oats, spinach pasta, organic sauce. Arthur, don't you know how to
have any fun?"
Arthur digs out a pack of sugar-free organic cranberry muffins. "For the
occasional dessert."
Eames chuckles and motions toward the coconut cream cake on the conveyor belt.
"You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling."
Arthur sighs, shaking his head, and walks away to prevent Eames from seeing the
flicker of his dimples.
After Eames is all rung up, Arthur heads for the exit, but realizes almost too
late that Eames isn't following behind. Arthur turns to find him talking to an
older gentleman, shorter than Eames and kind-looking. They're both chuckling,
then the man walks away and Eames catches Arthur's eye, tips his head toward
the back of the store.
"Harry said we could leave our groceries in the cooler. Get some time in
learning the town, yeah? Shake some hands, kiss some babies?"
Arthur grimaces. "I am not kissing any babies."
                                     : : :
Everything is just as idyllic as it looked to Arthur when he and his mom were
first here for spring break. The only difference is all the stores are open now
and there are many more people strolling along the sidewalks, more shrieking
children playing in the playgrounds scattered about. It's not wholly unlike
Arthur's neighborhood back home, everybody knowing everybody else, but there
are far less cars about. More people riding bikes or roller blading. And it
feels like everybody has at least one dog they're trying to lead around.
The wonderful thing is, shopkeepers don't mind the mess. There aren't any "no
dogs allowed" or "no kids allowed" signs in the windows. No signs barring
anything, period. It feels too idyllic, almost. Like time has passed this place
by, that people still leave their doors unlocked, safe in the knowledge that
nobody and nothing would ever try to hurt them.
As they stroll, Arthur meets the neighbors Eames had told him about during
their run. Mrs. Braddock is a sweet-looking elderly woman who could pass for
Dr. Ruth. She fawns over Eames and is more than welcoming to Arthur, and he
starts to have his doubts about Eames' claims that she'll molest anything with
a penis. When she turns to leave, though, her nails are sharp on Arthur's ass,
even through his pants, and he yelps, spinning around. She gives him a saucy
wink, and he vows never to leave his rear unprotected when she's around.
He also meets an exasperated Ellie Radigan and her two children, Damien and
Lucifer (technically, David and Logan, but Arthur's pretty sure Eames'
nicknames are more appropriate) on his way into the bookstore. The boys are
running wild through the children's section, screaming about something Arthur
can't make out, and Ellie and the store employee are desperately trying to
wrangle them. Only the threat of no dessert after dinner gets them to freeze in
their tracks. They peer up at Arthur, eyes glinting. He can imagine what
they're thinking, and gives them what he hopes is his most powerful glare,
complete with arched brow. They both pale slightly, but the moment is ruined
when Eames pats them on the head.
"Don't mind him, boys. He's just a giant pussy cat." He looks at Arthur and
winks, then leans in closer and stage whispers, "He secretly loves kids. Go on,
show him the reading corner."
The next thing Arthur knows, his arms are nearly yanked out of their sockets
and he's being dragged to a quiet, colorful corner of the shop and shoved into
a bean bag chair. They each grab a book and order him to read them aloud. After
another two books, Ellie collects the boys, looking far less harried, and
Arthur suddenly understands what Eames had been up to, doesn't so much mind
he's spent the last forty-five minutes with two sweaty, stinky boys plastered
to his sides. Eames buys him a vanilla chai tea latté at the café for
his troubles.
The last place they visit is the nursery where Arthur will be working for the
summer. It's packed to overflowing with customers, winding their way amongst
the haphazard rows of plants and trees and shrubs. Arthur's boss, Jason, comes
out from a greenhouse, hands full with a flat of pampas grass, and makes a bee-
line for Arthur and Eames. After a cursory greeting, Eames heads off for a look
around, leaving Arthur and Jason to tour the grounds and meet his fellow
employees.
Over an hour later, Arthur's feeling rather confident about working for Jason
and the nursery, and he finds Eames flirting with one of the other employees. A
pathetic-looking plant is nestled in the crook of his arm, the leaves brown and
wilted. Arthur waves good-bye to the departing employee before motioning to the
plant and asking, "One charity case wasn't enough?"
Eames laughs. "I couldn't just leave it there, all sad-looking because all its
mates had already been bought to beautify other yards." He studies it over
again as they walk. "Besides, you never know what a little tender loving care
will do. You should know that."
"Yes, yes I do."
                                     : : :
Arthur gets one more day before he has to start working and even though he
should take advantage of it and sleep in, the morning outside calls to him. As
does the prospect of a jog with Eames and the endless miles of his tattooed
skin.
He waits around the kitchen for half an hour, far longer than he probably
should have, and is quite disappointed when Eames doesn't show up. Arthur tells
himself that maybe it's just an off day for Eames. Everybody's allowed to have
one, after all.
                                     : : :
Once Arthur starts working, he almost forgets he lives with another person.
Eames never does join him for another morning run, which frustrates Arthur both
because he doesn't understand why, and because he cares in the first place. By
the time he gets to work, though, he's too busy to dwell on it much, and he's
almost forgotten it when he gets home and Eames is puttering about the kitchen
fixing dinner.
Working at Garden of Eden is almost exactly like working at Ariadne's family's
nursery back home. Other than the layout, which is far more natural and
inviting, Arthur's duties vary from day to day. They start him off with easy
tasks, watering the stock in the morning, helping customers find what they're
looking for, and helping them load their purchases into their cars.
Once Arthur's boss figures out how capable he is, Arthur gets assigned to
different crews for contract work; installing and maintaining landscapes for
businesses and residents alike. As much as Arthur likes helping someone find
the perfect plant for that hole in their garden, he prefers this side of the
business. Whether it's trimming trees or digging holes, it's satisfyingly
physical work that helps keep the muscles in his biceps and shoulders corded
and lean rather than bulky.
Life at home gets easier, too, once he gets over the initial disappointment of
Eames' absence during the morning run. After Arthur gets home and takes a
shower, he'll usually join Eames in the kitchen to help with dinner. In between
discussing the latest book Arthur's pilfered from Eames' collection, Eames
tries to give Arthur a few cooking tips. They don't always stick, but Arthur
still likes trying.
He also enjoys the times when Eames leans in to take Arthur's hand, usually to
get him to loosen his wrist as he's whisking, other times to get his undivided
attention, laying warm, blunt fingers on Arthur's forearm or wrist. No matter
what the reason, it always sends a little zing of pleasure straight to Arthur's
cock, and he spends each night in bed thinking about the texture of Eames skin,
how pink his lips are. Which usually leads to a quick and dirty jerk off before
falling asleep.
Arthur's never gone through lube so quickly in his life.
On his one day off for the week, he and Eames usually spend it loafing in and
around the house. Sometimes, Eames joins Arthur for his regular swim, the one
he takes to cool off after his jog. It usually degenerates to the two of them
splashing and trying to dunk each other, as if they're teenagers trying to show
off for the pretty girl in the bikini (or the hot boy in speedos, in Arthur's
case). They climb out only after they're too tired to tread water anymore and
fall to the grass in boneless heaps.
In these quiet moments, with Eames laughing and smiling, Arthur can't stop
himself from staring. The water clings to his eyelashes, making them stick
together in sharp, inky spikes. It beads on his lips, pale and plump, and
Arthur wants to kiss him. Wants to lick away the water and taste Eames
underneath. His hands itch to glide over the glistening skin of his chest, palm
over the light mat of hair and peaked nipples to get to the tattoos, each one
of which he'll trace with his fingers. Later, his tongue.
He turns away before Eames opens his eyes, cock hardening, undeterred by the
cold water they were just in. Arthur always leaves before Eames can get up,
just in case, and gets off in the shower. He wonders how he can't be over this
yet, how he's been around Eames for nearly three weeks and he still can't look
at him without getting hard. Yes, he's eighteen still, but some restraint
wouldn't be a bad thing.
Of course, Eames doesn't always help, either. Arthur is sure it isn't
intentional. Eames is thirty-two after all and, honestly, Arthur doesn't even
know if he's gay or straight or possibly even asexual. He's sure that Eames'
walking around shirtless seventy-five percent of the time is just his default
state. And it is his home, after all, he should be allowed to live in it how he
likes. But it's more than simply Eames' looks that spike Arthur's blood.
It's how he talks to Arthur like Arthur's an adult, an equal. He doesn't dote
on him like his mother or sisters would, making sure Arthur takes a jacket with
him when he goes out with the friends he's made at the nursery. He doesn't
lecture Arthur if Arthur happens to grab a beer from the fridge instead of the
pitcher of sweet tea. He lets Arthur make his own mistakes, but he's also there
to help if Arthur wants it.
Beyond even that, though, there are times when Arthur thinks, maybe, there
might be more to Eames' attention than just...guardian? Mentor? Friend?
Sometimes, when they're cooking, his hand lingers a little too long on Arthur's
waist, his back. Sometimes, he leans over Arthur's shoulder so his lips brush
the shell of Arthur's ear, his voice silky smooth and buzzing over every last
one of Arthur's nerves.
Sometimes, when they're debating (against) the merits of American_Gods or why,
despite the simplicity of them, the Harry Potter series has a place in
literature's history, there's a heat in Eames' eyes that Arthur can't place.
Doesn't want to hang his hopes on.
Then there are the times when, no matter where they are or what they're doing,
there's a gravity that pulls them together. Arthur will be upstairs, reading
the second of Eames' books and savouring every word, and he'll get an itch at
the base of his spine. Despite the fact that he's been curled up on the sofa in
his room for the better part of an hour, the rain outside the perfect
soundtrack, he immediately decides he needs a glass of tea and a cup of yogurt
right now.
And that, of course, will be the exact moment he'll find Eames at the back
door, soaking wet, juggling a couple heads of lettuce and half a dozen of the
early tomatoes, trying to figure out how to get the door open. Arthur will let
him in, relieve him of his booty, and get him a towel for drying off. With no
shame, Eames will strip down to his boxers right there in the kitchen, and
Arthur will set about getting his snack, if only so Eames won't see the heat in
his face. By then, the book he's been reading is forgotten and they end up
spending a couple hours playing Xbox, at which Eames improves each time they
play.
It even happens in his sleep one night, Arthur waking up quite suddenly for no
reason he can discern in the silvery light of the moon. He heads downstairs,
just in case it might've been Eames calling for help. But it's dark at the
bottom of the stairs. Quiet, too. Since Arthur is already up, he makes his way
to the kitchen for a glass of water, and that's when he sees the dim glow at
the end of the hallway.
Eames is in his office, feet propped up on the coffee table, laptop in his lap,
a small, lit lamp sitting on the side table glowing quietly over his shoulder.
Eames' head is tipped back against the sofa, eyes closed, and there's a glass
tumbler in his curled hand, resting on the cushion next to him.
Arthur murmurs Eames' name once, standing just outside the door, then again
after he takes a few steps closer. Standing beside the couch, he decides to
close the laptop first and set it aside, saving it from the remains of Eames'
drink or falling in case Eames wakes too suddenly. Arthur then takes the glass
from Eames' loose fingers and places it well out of reach of flailing legs.
They twitch at the loss, but Eames shows no other signs of waking up.
With one hand on the back of the couch, Arthur leans over Eames, quiet and
slow, and brings his other hand to Eames' forehead. He tries to keep his touch
light but comforting, the same way his mother always could. He lets himself
have a moment to study Eames' face, looking younger now, despite the day's
worth of stubble. Gently, Arthur tilts in, mouth close to Eames' ear, and calls
for Eames again, so quiet it's more an exhalation than speech.
On its own, Arthur's hand slides into Eames' hair. It's soft and thick, silky
against Arthur's fingers. Eames makes a low, pleased noise in the back of his
throat and turns into the touch, mouth curling at the corners. Arthur's thumb
sweeps against the temple, his palm rasping over stubble.
"Eames," Arthur says again, a little louder this time. He's starting to pull
his hand away when Eames turns just a little bit more, enough so that his lips
brush against the thin-skinned inside of Arthur's wrist. It isn't a kiss, but
it's not an accident, either. The touch sets Arthur's hair on end, his blood
thunders in his ears.
Finally, Eames eyes flutter open, dark and soft with sleep. Arthur's knuckles
brush against the blade of Eames' jaw as his eyes come into focus, but the
smile never leaves his face. "Aren't you up past your bed time?" he says to
Arthur, the words a little slurred.
"It seems you are, too, Mr. Eames."
Eames hums and stretches his arms above his head. The t-shirt he's wearing
rides up, exposing a slim strip of skin just above his pajama pants. The dim
lamp turns the tanned skin bronze, and Arthur can't look away from it until
it's gone. Luckily, Eames' eyes have slipped closed again; he doesn't notice.
"C'mon Eames," Arthur says, hands wrapped around one bicep, trying to tug him
up off the couch. It only works because Eames allows it to.
On his feet, Eames is a little wobbly, both from sleep and the alcohol, and
ends up letting Arthur take most of his weight. "First lesson about writing,
Arthur, is that writers don't have bedtimes." Arthur guides him for a couple of
steps and then Eames says, "And I believe I told you not to call me that."
Arthur stops to apologize, but the sudden movement has Eames wavering backward.
Arthur catches him by wrapping an arm around his waist. This enables Eames to
throw his arm over Arthur's shoulder, his hand, strangely, burying itself in
Arthur's hair.
Eames sighs, which seems to make him heavier, or at least lean more heavily
against Arthur, and he's indescribably grateful that Eames is still half-asleep
and probably a little drunk. Arthur doesn't have to worry about Eames noticing
the obvious erection tenting his sweatpants, or the way it twitches every time
Eames' breath gusts across Arthur's neck.
They get to Eames' bedroom without further incident, where Arthur guides him to
the bed. Eames flops down none too gently, and lets his legs swing against the
mattress. Arthur immediately misses the weight and heat of his body, and
wonders what he should do now; if Eames sleeps in the pajama pants or not, if
he should slip them off, if Eames is even wearing anything underneath them.
His cock gives a painful throb at that last thought.
In the end, Eames makes the decision for Arthur by worming his way onto the bed
enough so that he can curl his legs up. He looks ridiculous, laying on the bed
diagonally, without a pillow under his head to support his neck, so Arthur
rounds the bed and arranges him a little better, tucks the pillow underneath
his head while Eames rolls around, trying to get comfortable. There's a cedar
chest at the end of the bed, and Arthur opens it to find a light quilt to throw
over him.
Satisfied that Eames won't fall out of bed or wake up with the world's worst
neck crick, he touches Eames ankle once, his fingertips just skimming over the
bone. It isn't until he's almost out the door that Eames says, "Thanks, love,"
voice rough and quiet.
Arthur smiles.
                                     : : :
The night doesn't get mentioned the next day or even the one after that, so
Arthur assumes that Eames doesn't even remember it. Which, in the end, is
probably for the best. Arthur tries not to dwell on it, but every once in
awhile, he feels Eames watching him. When he turns, though, Eames' attention is
on the paper he's reading or the dinner he's preparing.
Other times, when Arthur catches Eames staring off into space, his fingers itch
to sink into Eames' hair like the did that night, comb through it slow and
smooth. At those times, his wrist tingles with the memory of Eames' lips.
It often makes Arthur feel younger than he is, crushing on a man almost old
enough to be his father. A man who is supposed to be guiding him on the path to
becoming a book editor, helping him make connections in the publishing world
that will be useful when he's finally graduated.
Mostly, they talk about Arthur's love of books, why he wants to be an editor
and not a writer. They debate the merits of Tolstoy and Lovecraft. How
Stephenie Meyer has perverted both the teen and horror genres. He doesn't
mention how he is well into Eames' third book, or how he's also started
American_Gods. Eames' ego is big enough as it is.
Despite how much they disagree, Arthur enjoys the discussions with Eames. It's
nothing like he'd get at home. Eames respects his opinion, though he hardly
ever agrees with it. And only once in awhile does a little condescension bleed
into his words, as if Arthur is still only a child and knows not of what he
speaks.
Still, for all intents and purposes, Arthur isn't networking very much, unless
Mrs. Braddock and the Radigan boys count. Which they don't.
At least he's made some friends with the people at Garden of Eden. People his
own age that he can hang out with occasionally, go to the movies or, on one
rare occasion, sneak onto the beach for some skinny dipping. It's not like
hanging out with Yusuf and Ariadne at Rehoboth Beach, but it's close. Making
new friends his own age isn't what he's in Virgina for, though.
Had he known it would take an injury sending him home early to get that
particular ball rolling, he would've thrown himself in front of the zero turn a
few weeks ago. Instead, it takes a rogue tree branch to his back to find out
what Eames has been doing with his days.
Arthur closes the front door quietly, not wanting to break Eames' concentration
in case he's in the middle of writing. But as he makes his way to the kitchen,
Arthur realizes he needn't have worried. He can hear Eames from his study,
arguing with somebody. Arthur hopes Eames is on the phone. If not, he wonders
if he shouldn't pay closer attention to Eames sanity.
He leans against the sink, back sore and stiff, and sips at a glass of tea.
Eventually, Eames' voice starts getting louder, and then he's in the kitchen,
still arguing, a phone pressed tight to his ear. Arthur sighs in relief.
Eames doesn't notice Arthur at first, doesn't see him until he steps up to the
kitchen counter and almost smacks into him. The surprise catches Eames mid-
sentence, and he says, "Mal, do whatever you want. You always do. Phone you
later," into the phone. To Arthur, he says, "What happened?" his eyes instantly
scanning Arthur from head to toe. Luckily, his back is facing away from Eames,
so he doesn't see the damage right away.
Arthur shrugs, wincing a little at the movement. "Stupid mistake on my part."
Eames' eyes narrow and he motions with one finger for Arthur to turn. Arthur
does. ''Bloody hell, Arthur! What happened?!"
Arthur flattens his palms on the counter and sighs. "We were removing some
trees. I turned at the wrong time. It happens. I'll be fine. I--" He hisses at
the weight of Eames' hand on his shoulder, where Arthur imagines the bruise is
the darkest blue-purple. Eames pulls it away, letting it fall instead to the
hem of his t-shirt, pulling it up and off so he can see everything.
Eames sucks in a breath, his tongue making a wet sound against his teeth. "This
looks wicked, Arthur. What can I do?"
"Nothing really, I--" his whole body shudders when a warm, dry hand skims
feather-light down his back, then back up. He has to bite his tongue against a
moan. "A few nights sleeping on my stomach and I'll be fine. Really." He turns
then, and finds Eames closer than Arthur expects, eyes dark and skeptical.
"Fine," he sighs, shoulders dropping. "If you wouldn't mind, maybe some Icy Hot
will help?"
Eames turns, heading for the stairs. "Where do you keep it?" He's stopped short
by Arthur's hand on his wrist.
"I can get it myself, Eames. I didn't break my legs. Just. Wait here." Eames
follows anyway, phone left behind in the kitchen.
As he climbs the stairs, Arthur silently thanks his mother and track coaches
for reinforcing proper posture. He'd be in a lot more pain right now if he
hadn't been working on keeping his shoulders back and spine straight his entire
life. In the bathroom, he digs the balm out of his toiletry bag, hands it over
to Eames, and turns around, leaning against the vanity for support. When he
doesn't feel anything, he chances a glance over his shoulder. Eames' mouth is
pulled down at the corner, his hands still hovering in the air, fingers clasped
tight around the tub of Icy Hot.
"Eames?"
He startles and catches Arthur's gaze. "Yes, right. Why don't you lay down and
get comfortable?"
Arthur rolls his eyes but doesn't have much energy to argue. He toes his boots
off and then crawls into the bed from the foot end, only getting in far enough
to reach a pillow and closes his eyes on a sigh. He's in the middle, which
gives Eames enough room to sit on the side and not break his back.
Eames sits on Arthur's left side, the side Arthur's facing away from. Arthur
doesn't mind. It leaves him able to focus on Eames' touch, for once purposely
on Arthur, and gentle besides.
The balm is cold at first, feels good against the skin of the bruise, his
aching shoulders. Eames keeps his touch light, hands flat and wide, smoothing
over Arthur's entire back. It isn't necessary, but it doesn't hurt either, so
Arthur doesn't object.
Eventually, Eames turns his attention to what Arthur assumes is the worst of
the bruising, using only his fingertips to keep from pressing to hard. He takes
a breath, an obvious sign that he wants to say something, and Arthur is pretty
sure he doesn't want to hear whatever warnings Eames is going to give him. He
asks, "What is it?" anyway.
Eames' fingers still, touching but not moving for a moment, then continue as
Eames says, "I know you didn't come here for work or for fun. I know I'm meant
to help guide you in the literary world. Help you make connections. I know I
haven't been doing that much. I don't-- I wasn't sure." He groans, long and
low. "There's a party. A private one, thank fuck, but a party nonetheless. For
my new book. I was hoping Dom would be able to talk Mal out of it."
The last is said more to himself than to Arthur, but he asks, "Dom?" anyway.
"My editor. His wife, Mallorie, is my publicist and never misses a chance to
throw a party."
Arthur isn't sure how to react to that. He settles on a quiet, "Ah." Eames'
thumb keeps circling his right shoulder blade. It's distracting.
"Anyway, it'll be attended mostly by pretentious gits, which means you'll fit
right in." Arthur turns his head and starts to slide his hand out from under
the pillow to thump Eames wherever he can reach him, but Eames is smiling, so
Arthur smiles back. "Would you like to go?"
Arthur lets the question hang in the air, enjoying Eames' sudden, surprising
fit of nervousness, then releases a long-suffering sigh. "Mom's gonna love
telling me 'I told you so.'"
***** Chapter 3 *****
Eames spends the next ten days explaining all the things that will be expected
of him when they go to D.C. for the party. "It isn't all fun and games, this
writer gig," Eames laments. "There are interviews with inane questions and ass
kissing and sodding mingling I have to do." Arthur watches Eames stab his fork
a little more forcefully than necessary into a piece of chicken. "It's a good
thing they serve alcohol," Eames says to his plate.
Arthur snickers quietly and Eames looks up, eyes wide, as if he's just realized
Arthur is sitting across from him. "Well, and you'll be there, too. Take some
of the load off." He sips at his beer, studying Arthur over the bottle. "Mal
will definitely love you," he finishes, voice a tad ominous.
"Do I want to ask why?" Arthur asks, arching a brow and cutting into his own
chicken.
Eames chuckles, low and foreboding. "Mal is the most dreadful, frustrating,
arrogant, gorgeous woman I have ever had the fortune to know. And having known
her longer than almost anyone else," he continues, pausing to eat a fork-full
of pasta salad, "I'm the only one that can say so."
Gaze fixated on Eames' lips pursed around an errant noodle, Arthur temporarily
loses track of the conversation. He watches Eames suck it in, making a small
wet noise at the end, and clears his throat, ducks his head so Eames won't see
the heat in his cheeks. "How do you know Mal?" Arthur asks, low and rough.
Eames doesn't notice the sandpaper texture of Arthur's voice as he launches
into the story about how he met Mal, his " oldest and dearest friend," while
attending university in Paris.
His face wistful, Eames explains how perfectly bored he was on the very first
day of Women's Studies, already doubting his choice to attend university at
all, even though his father hadn't given him any choice at all. That's when,
from across the room, he saw and instantly fell in love with Mal, a gorgeous,
vivacious French girl who was just as stuck thanks to an equally over-reaching
father.
Together, they managed to make their classes more interesting, coming up with
ways to engage their professor in far more lively and interesting discussion
than the professor himself had planned. Their friendship meant getting through
homework quicker, too. Which left them time for raiding Mal's father's wine
cellar, smoking french cigarettes, and making out in Eames' dorm room.
Eames chuckles at this last part, shaking his head at the memories. Arthur
bites his lip in disappointment, trying to sound nonchalant as he asks, "So
she's your ex then?"
"No." Eames lengthens the word, forming a perfect circle with his plush lips.
"We were -- are -- too much alike. Too passionate and stubborn to ever succeed
as lovers. No, she met Dom and then I met Neal and, well. They lived happily
ever after, I suppose." His eyes dim and he looks away from Arthur to take a
long swig of his beer.
Arthur ignores the thrill in his stomach at confirmation of Eames' sexuality.
The fall of Eames' face after the mention of Neal, though, tells Arthur more of
that relationship than Eames would probably want him to know. He focuses
instead on his cleaning his plate to give Eames privacy to collect himself.
"Yes, so. Mal." Eames voice startles Arthur and he glances up to find Eames
smiling once again, eyes bright as he gives Arthur a long, assessing look.
"She'll definitely like you. Straight-laced, young, and beautiful. She'll eat
you up if you let her."
"And how do I not let her?"
"Stick close to me," he says, solemn. Arthur arches a brow at Eames and the
corner of his mouth quirks down until Eames shoots him a wink and smiles.
Every day, Arthur learns a little bit more about Mal and Dom. Eames too,
considering how tightly their histories are entwined. Bits and pieces of the
story of Eames and Neal come out, Eames always closing up after the letting
something too personal slip. Like the time he revealed Neal was his first true
relationship. Or when he confessed that he'd thought Neal would be it for him,
despite Mal's warnings to the contrary.
"The heart wants what the heart wants. And Paris is not the city to fall in
love in for the first time." Eames says, nostalgia softening his face. Then,
almost as suddenly as he started talking about it, he freezes up, and his voice
falls flat. "That's another thing about Mal," he continues, as if he hadn't
mentioned Neal at all. "She thinks she's right about everything. And she
usually is."
Eames doesn't echo Arthur's chuckle, instead turning on his heel to retreat to
his study. From the kitchen, Arthur can hear the muted clicking of the laptop
keyboard and decides to spend the rest of the night in his room, reading the
third of Eames' books.
The evening before they're set to leave for Washington D.C., they're sitting on
the deck, enjoying an after dinner beer and Eames starts telling Arthur about
his first book release party; how nervous he was despite having Mal and Dom by
his side. He also mentions clinging desperately to a person named Robert, but
Arthur doesn't ask for clarification and Eames doesn't seem to notice
mentioning him in the first place.
"It was in this tiny little bookstore in Boston," he starts, eyes unfocused,
staring into the dark. "I wasn't a known quantity yet. It was only my second
book, but Mal said," he huffs, bemused. "She said, 'you have to get known to be
known.'" Eames shakes his head and thumbs at a drop of water wending its way
down the neck of his beer bottle. "I told her she was bollocks, but she said to
trust her and, God help me, I did."
Arthur watches Eames as he talks, head tipped against the back of the chair.
They're not quite a foot apart, close enough that he could reach out and drag
his knuckles along the elegant line of Eames' neck and over the jut of his
Adam's apple if he wanted. Instead, he curls his hand into a fist and rests it
on the armrest.
"So there I was, nervous as hell, grinding the bones in Robert's hand to little
more than dust, Mal and Dom bringing up the rear so I can't escape and I
just...I walked in and it all went away." He swallows hard, tongue darting out
to lick his lips. "Somehow, I managed to con my way through two hours of glad-
handing even the lowliest reporters, winning them over with my charming smile
and sparkling personality."
Arthur snorts so hard, his swallow of beer threatens to come back up.
Eames looks over at him, eyes narrowed but glinting. "Oh piss off," he says,
quirking his lips. "I could sweet talk a banana from a gorilla and you bloody
well know it."
Arthur does know it, but he's not going to admit it. Not to Eames. And Eames
doesn't seem to care either way, his eyes dark and focused on Arthur. After a
minute that stretches out long and heavy, his gaze slides to Arthur's fist and
he trails his fingertips over it. "Poor Arthur, always so tense."
He uncurls his hand before Eames can pull his away and, for one brief moment,
their fingers tangle together. Eames' seem to tighten, just a quick flex of the
knuckles, then drop to hang in the empty space between their chairs.
"Anyway," he says, voice raspy, "tomorrow's party will be slightly bigger than
that. But I have no doubt you'll pull through with flying colors. And I'll be
there for whatever you need." As an after thought, he adds, "Mal, too, I'm
sure."
Draining the last of his beer, Eames rises from his chair and stretches his
arms over his head. The light from the kitchen is dim, but Arthur can still see
the strip of skin exposed between the hem of his shirt and the waist of his
jeans. The warm glow colors Eames' skin deep bronze. Arthur can only imagine
what it would feel like under his fingertips, the short hairs there dry and
scratchy. "I'm off to bed," says Eames. "Long day tomorrow."
Arthur nods and murmurs a good night, but doesn't follow. In the quiet
stillness of the night, he imagines he can still feel the light pressure of
Eames' fingers on his skin, and he smiles.
                                     : : :
It took a little sweet talking of his coworkers, but Arthur had managed to
trade some days with them to afford the two-night trip to D.C. with Eames. And
as Eames pulls away from the cabin, Arthur promises himself to focus on the
weekend and not on the nearly three straight weeks he's going to have to work
when he gets back.
They leave at the crack of dawn, allowing Eames to do a series of interviews
beforehand. This gives Arthur enough time for a short run, but not the
following swim or shower. He’d at least packed his clothes the night
before and left them by the door, allowing him to drop into Eames’ sleek
Audi convertible, skin still a little sticky, and sleep until they get to
Arlington.
Arthur wakes up just as Regan Airport ends and the Potomac glints dull blue
beneath them. He yawns and stretches, then runs his hand through wind-mussed
hair and rolls his head to the side to look at Eames.
He looks loose and relaxed for the first time in weeks, the wind ruffling
through his hair and eyes hidden by a pair of aviator-style sunglasses. He's
quietly singing along, his full lips hardly moving, to a low-playing song on
the radio. Arthur thinks it might be Lady Gaga.
Once he gets his fill of looking at Eames, he turns to the other side. He can't
see it from so far away, not clearly, but he knows what lies on the opposite
banks. Knows it better than he sometimes wishes he did.
He wakes up in increments, perking up a little with each monument that comes
into view; first is the dome of the Jefferson Memorial seeming overshadowed by
the Washington Monument. Next to that, if he squints, Arthur can just make out
the corner of the Lincoln and then the view is interrupted by a line of trees
and the Arlington Bridge.
Arthur stretches again and reaches for the bottle of water he brought with.
After taking a long swallow, he asks, "Are we there yet?" adding just a hint of
petulance to his tone. Eames startles, making Arthur dimple.
"About another ten minutes, excepting traffic." Eames glances at Arthur and
gives him quick grin.
It's less than that when they pull up to a tall, white building. It looks
vaguely colonial with a few modern updates to the windows and the
entryway.There's a man in a valet uniform waiting out front that rushes over to
the trunk and begins pulling out bags. Another man follows him, dressed in a
button down shirt and casual slacks. Eames approaches the second with his hand
out, growling "Dominic," in a friendly sort of way. The two clasp hands,
embracing each other for the length of a pat on the back. Then Eames is turning
to Arthur and waving him over. "Arthur, this is Dom. Dom, Arthur." Arthur
accepts Dom's out-stretched hand.
"Eames has told me a lot about you," Dom says, squinting at Arthur against the
sunlight.
Surprised, Arthur glances at Eames, who ducks his head, but can't hide pink-
tipped ears. "Yes, well. I've heard a lot about you, too," Arthur says, eyes
sliding back to meet Dom's
"Don't believe a thing he says," Dom replies with a wink before spinning around
to consult with Eames again, Arthur all but forgotten as Dom leads them through
the revolving doors to a gleaming bank of elevators, their shoes shushing over
plush, navy blue carpeting.
Eames had explained to Arthur about Dom's firm owning the top floor of the
building and converting it to a fully loaded penthouse, handy in situations
just like this one; an author needing a place to stay for a book tour or to
wrap up a manuscript or, if they author is really spoiled, a place for them to
get away from it all.
"And by it all," Eames explained, "they mean getting away from the family to
have a little dalliance with someone who isn't the missus. Or mister."
Arthur, amused by the scorn in Eames' voice, says, "Not like you've ever done
that, I'm sure." He tries to keep his tone teasing, but Eames gives him a sharp
look.
"Never. Not once."
But for all Eames described it, Arthur hadn't expected someplace so open and
expansive. The elevator doors opening to a high-ceilinged foyer, with a wall-
hanging waterfall on one side and a sideboard on the other.
Moving further into the penthouse, Arthur finds only sharp, clean lines in
everything from the sofa and love seat to the conference table to the kitchen
appliances. The apartment is the complete opposite of Eames' cabin -- modern
bordering on industrial where the cabin is cozy and welcoming -- and Arthur
notices the slight tightening of Eames' shoulders, the sharp click of his shoes
against the tiled floor.
It may be better than a hotel, more familiar in some ways, and more private,
too. But Arthur could never imagine getting comfortable here, curling up with a
manuscript, a cup of coffee, and a red correction pen on the straight-backed
sofa. Arthur is grateful they're only going spend two nights here. Already he
finds himself missing the warmth of the cabin.
                                     : : :
Studying himself in the mirror, damp from the shower, Arthur thinks about the
evening that lies ahead. Getting this dressed up feels like something official,
like when he was getting ready for prom. He has to forcibly remind himself that
this is not a date; Eames may have made suggestions about how to dress and how
to act, and it may even feel a little like a date and meeting the parents all
in one go, but it's not. It's not. It's fancy hors d'oeuvres and an endless
supply of champagne and trying to charm book editors and a publicist, world
famous authors and select members of the media. That's it. End of story.
He decides to slick his hair back, flat against the scalp, with a little help
from a strong-hold pomade, the only thing tough enough to rein in his loose
curls. The change is instant and severe. He doesn't guess how much older it
makes him look, hopes a few years at least, but it definitely takes the focus
away from his hair and draws attention to his deep-set eyes and sharp
cheekbones. His smile ruins the entire effect, though, the dimples softening
everything. He vows to keep the smiling to a minimum.
His clothes wait for him in the bedroom, a slate blue Hugo Boss suit his
grandfather helped him pick out paired with a dove grey Calvin Klein oxford.
Smoothing his fingers over the black tie helps soothe his nerves.
The shirt is cool against his damp, heated skin, clings to the wings of his
shoulder blades. Arthur watches himself in the mirror as he buttons it up,
leaving the french cuffs open around his wrists.
The pants are as snug as they were on graduation day, and Arthur flushes at the
memory of the tailor fluttering around him, pinning this and that, under the
knowing eye of Arthur's grandfather. It had felt weird, at first, wearing
something so fitting, not quite made for him, but almost. But Ariadne's, "Holy
shit, Arthur, look at your ass!" made all the discomfort worth it. He makes a
half-turn now, in front of the mirror. Oh yeah.
The tie slithers through his hands like water, warm and silky, and after having
practiced for ages the night before graduation, Arthur is pretty sure he could
tie the knot with one hand behind his back. He checks his reflection anyway, if
only to make certain the notch is where it should be, before slipping into a
pair of gleaming tie-up oxfords.
The coat comes last, Arthur's fingers tracing the satiny edging of the lapels
first, a little wistful, the picks it up carefully and eases it over his
shoulders. His hands fall to the single button on instinct and he smiles at the
snug, familiar fit; the coat nipping in at the waist to emphasize the breadth
of his shoulders compared to the narrowness of his waist. In the mirror, it
makes him look more delicate than he is. Arthur is strangely okay with that.
The only thing left to complete the ensemble is a pair of mother of pearl cuff
links from his grandmother. They feel too small between his fingers and he
fumbles with them twice before getting them through the buttonholes.
He takes a moment to survey himself one last time, then heads down the hall to
find Eames still in his own room, dressed only in a white undershirt and boxer
briefs, his suit still on its hangar on a hook next to the mirror. He
hasn’t heard Arthur’s footsteps, so Arthur leans against the door
frame and watches.
Eames reaches for the shirt first, much to Arthur’s disappointment, the
stark whiteness contrasting brilliantly with Eames’ sun tanned skin.
He’s murmuring something Arthur doesn’t catch under his breath as
he fastens the buttons. With the collar popped up and the top two buttons still
open, Eames looks like a bulked out Tom Cruise from Risky Business. Only much,
much hotter.
Too late, Arthur realizes he should’ve taken the opportunity to oogle
Eames’ ass when he could. He barely gets a glimpse of it shifting under
the cotton before Eames is sitting on the bed, pulling his pants on. In the
silence of the room, Arthur imagines he can hear the rasp of the material
against the hair on Eames’ legs.
Standing up, Eames tucks his shirt in with quick, efficient shoves, and then
he’s zipping up the fly, buttoning the button. Ok, so even in black
wool, Eames’ ass looks fantastic. Arthur’s beginning to suspect a
pattern.
Eames reaches for the tie and lets out a long, low sigh, draping it around his
neck. He stands there for long moments, staring at himself in the mirror, hands
on his hips. Eventually, Arthur figures out Eames doesn’t plan on
knotting his tie anytime soon, so he decides to speak up.
“You have to finish buttoning up the shirt first, then you knot the
tie.”
Eames startles and spins, eyes wide. "Oh that would make a lovely headline.
'Author suffers heart attack before release party.' Brilliant, that." He turns
back to his mirror and sighs again. "Have I mentioned how much I hate this
part?”
Arthur pushes off from the door frame and closes the distance between them.
“Once, maybe twice,” he teases, grinning wide.
“Yeah? Well, I do.”
“I know, I know. Worse than Chinese water torture.”
They’re face to face, an arm’s length apart, and Eames’
humored huff gusts warm and damp over Arthur’s face “Do not
patronize me, Arthur.” His words are clipped, but his eyes are bright.
It’s clear he understands what Arthur is trying to do.
Arthur’s eyes widen and he flattens his hand over his heart. “I
would never!” But the corner of his mouth twitches and Eames flatters
Arthur with a wide, honest smile. Something heavy lodges itself in
Arthur’s chest. It feels just that little bit harder to breathe.
Without thinking, Arthur reaches up to close the rest of the buttons on
Eames’ shirt. He attempts to ignore heat he can feel seeping into his
fingers. Focuses instead on smooth buttons, the minute striations that make
each one unique, and the black silk of Eames’ tie brushing cool and
slick against Arthur’s knuckles.
Once the buttons are closed, Eames using one finger to tug at the collar,
Arthur turns his attentions to the tie. It’s slim and black and follows
Arthur’s movements effortlessly. Eames tips his head back to give Arthur
room and each of his breaths whispers over the bridge of Arthur's nose. Arthur
can smell the cool, clean mint of Eames' toothpaste.
This close, it's hard to ignore the warmth of Eames' skin, the spice of his
cologne, or the width of his chest. His knuckles brush against Eames' neck and
Arthur feels the rasp of hair there. The corner of his mouth ticks up in a half
smile. "You missed a spot." He takes both ends of the tie in one hand and
thumbs over the hair once, twice.
"Tradition," Eames huffs, rolling up onto the balls of his feet, then back
down.
"Hold still," Arthur murmurs, brows furrowed. There's no sound in the room but
the quiet slide of silk against silk and then the he's done; knot tied, moment
over. Arthur takes a half-step back to survey his work, unnecessarily fiddling
with the tie to make sure it's straight then smoothing his palm down the length
of it. His hand pauses on Eames stomach, the muscle underneath firm. When he
looks up, Eames' eyes are dark and still. His nostrils flare.
Arthur's breath hitches and his hand falls away, finger by finger. "I, uh. I
think it's good." He gestures at the mirror. "Take a look."
Eames does, smoothing over the tie himself, and Arthur takes a deep breath,
another step back. In the mirror, he watches Eames fiddle with his collar, one
finger tugging it away from his neck.
"Quit it," Arthur chastises, voice sharp, one hand trying to still Eames' arm.
Eames grumbles. "Hate these bloody things."
"You look fine. You know you do." And Eames does; hair slicked down and to the
side, looking darker than usual. It makes him seem younger, which doesn't
really help Arthur's crush at all. Neither does his clean-shaven face. The lack
of a beard makes Eames' lips look paler. Makes Arthur want to kiss and nip at
them, make them flush the way he's used to, lush and pink and perfect.
Eames reaches for his coat and Arthur takes a third step back. From here, he
can take all of Eames in. Black wool straining slightly at the shoulders to the
tuck at the waist, emphasizing slim hips, to the double vent in the back,
highlighting Eames’ round, pert ass. It is quite the transformation from
Eames’ usual jeans and a t-shirt. Or no shirt at all, Arthur is
delighted to discover.
With one last brush of his palm over the lapels, Eames turns. "Well, that's
settled, then. Let's have a look at you."
Arthur tries not to fidget under the weight of his gaze, or the way his eyes go
hot and dark. He's quiet for long moments and Arthur almost affects a model
pose, but then the corner of Eames' mouth ticks up. "I suppose you always carry
a suit around in case of emergencies?"
Arthur's cheeks heat; he smiles. "My mom made sure I brought it with. In case I
met a nice, young man I wanted to impress." His smile turns down a little and
he makes a quiet tsking sound. He swipes a hand at some imaginary lint of the
sleeve of Eames' suit. "You're not at all what she had in mind, but you'll do
in a pinch, I guess."
Eames doesn't see his teasing wink, is instead focused on catching Arthur's
hand before he can pull it away. He thumbs over Arthur's wrists and turns them
to get a closer look at Arthur's cuff links. "These are rather plain, don't you
think?"
Arthur lifts a shoulder, trying hard not to focus on the strength of Eames'
hands, or how rough the skin is against his own. "Family heirlooms."
"Oh no," Eames croons. "A suit like this should have something far more
fabulous to accompany it." He releases Arthur to dig through his toiletry kit
and pulls out a blue, velvety bag, tips its contents out into his open palm.
"There you are," he says to the box. He holds up his hand, triumphant. Arthur
can seen the glint of black and silver between thick fingers. "Onyx and
sterling silver commas. A present from Mal for the release of my first book.
Well, the first one she promoted."
His fingers are warm and nimble, slipping the stylized cuff links through
Arthur's buttonholes. When they're on, Eames doesn't let go of Arthur's wrists,
his thumbs a light weight against the pulse. Arthur looks up to see his face
and there's a muscle in his jaw that tics. Arthur wants to brush the backs of
his fingers over it to soothe it, but doesn't want to shake Eames' grasp,
either.
Finally, Eames breathes deep and looks up, eyes bright and smiling. "Now you
look properly smashing. Too good to be my date, in any case." He winks and
Arthur smiles, pride curling tight in his chest.
"Are you ready then?" Arthur asks, a little breathless.
Eames eyes dim slightly. "Just about. Meet you at the lift?" He glances in the
mirror one last time, brushing at stray lint on his shoulder.
Arthur nods and leaves, presses the call button and waits, fingers fiddling
with his borrowed cuff links. They’re still warm from Eames and blurred
with fingerprints when Arthur examines them more closely. He pulls his
handkerchief out to shine them up.
Eames steps up next to Arthur before he’s finished with the second one,
and he glances up to see Eames smiling at him, chuckling a little. The corner
of Arthur’s mouth slants down. “What are you laughing at?”
Eames shakes his head and steps onto the elevator. “Nothing darling.
Absolutely Nothing.”
                                     : : :
The venue for the party is an unassuming shop sandwiched between a dry cleaners
and a pharmacy. It's an institution in DC, going back two dozen decades, and
boasts guests from all walks of life; from former presidents and current
politicos to more mainstream authors to iconic authors such as Norman Mailer
and Margaret Atwood to the regular, every day customer. The night promises to
be interesting, a unique blend of media, an entourage from the publishing
company, fellow authors -- friends of Eames' -- there to give him a hard time,
(according to Eames) and healthy mix of Eames' fans.
The purple awning is a dark smudge in the fading light, edged with fairy lights
Arthur can see from where he and Eames are waiting in a line of cars, blocks
away. Arthur's knee bounces in nervous anticipation as he watches people
spilling out of the shop onto the sidewalk; women in elegant dresses and men in
sharp suits.
The line of cars moves slow, each one letting out one or two people to a
smattering of camera flares. Eames had told Arthur it would be something like a
movie premiere, with photographers and reporters waiting outside, but much much
smaller. Arthur thinks he counts five or six different bursts of light. Not too
shabby for his first time.
Next to him, Eames is long line of heat pressed up against Arthur's side from
knee to hip to shoulder. He too is watching the media, the line of cars inching
their way closer. "Ready?" he asks Arthur, tapping his thumb against Arthur's
knee.
"Not really," Arthur answers honestly. He'd have liked to have met Mal before
this, if not to get to know her, then at least to figure out what his best
defense against her will be. The rest of it he thinks he can handle. He's good
at making nice, kissing ass if necessary. Arthur may only be eighteen, but he's
not stupid; he thinks he's pretty well-informed, more so than most kids his
age, and even though he may not be a fan of the sci-fi/fantasy genre, he is
fairly confident he can fake it for a few hours.
It's not like Arthur isn't getting anything out of this night, either. Being
introduced to influential authors and publishers is a huge step this early in
his career, and Arthur isn't dumb enough to screw up this opportunity.
Pulling nearer to the shop, Arthur can make out details, like the two trees
flanking the doorway, also trimmed with fairy lights, and the light spilling
from the window front, glowing golden and warm. There are people inside,
dozens; it looks full but not packed. Arthur is eager to get inside.
They're just two cars down from getting out when Eames takes Arthur's hand in
his. It draws Arthur's attention away from the crowd.
"The most important thing tonight is to have fun," he says, looking too somber
for the statement.
Arthur squeezes his fingers in reassurance and smiles. "And avoid Mal, right?"
He's proud that he can make Eames grin, it loosens something inside himself,
making it easier to breathe.
"That goes without saying," Eames says with a wink.
Through the closed window, Arthur can hear the quiet rumblings of the people
outside. From the corner of his eye, he can see the car in front of them
pulling away, but he can't stop watching at Eames. Wants to ruffle his
ridiculously formal hair, thumb over his pressed-together lips, or even flatten
his palm over Eames' chest to see if his heart is thumping as hard as his own.
It feels like a moment here, like something big could happen if Arthur would
just reach out and grab it, grab Eames. But the driver is saying something and
Eames is gently prodding him and the car door opens and he's on the sidewalk,
blinking rapidly into the camera flashes.
Eames is right behind him as he emerges from the car, his hand heavy on
Arthur's waist. He guides him away from the car and stops, allowing the
photographers to get their shots in. Because it's Eames, they are more eager,
taking picture after picture, turning everything Arthur sees into shadows.
Eames' hand on his hip tightens and Arthur leans into him on reflex, expecting
Eames to say something. His lips brush against the shell of Arthur's ear as he
says, "Smile, love."
"It makes me look too young," Arthur says, turning to give Eames his full
attention and bumping their noses together. He thinks that maybe he smiles
anyway because Eames is smiling and pleased and fits so well against Arthur's
body. Arthur hopes that if he is smiling, the papers don't accuse Eames of
robbing the cradle. The last thing Arthur wants to do is create a scandal.
Dom stands near the door, smiling and waiting for Eames to get through with the
pictures. There's a woman with him, her arm looped loosely through Dom's. She
looks like a 1930s movie star with the dark fall of hair to one side of her
face, eyes rimmed with kohl, and a dress reminiscent of the prohibition era.
Her eyes sparkle and her lips quirk and Arthur thinks that he can see why Eames
loves her.
"Mon cher," she cries, pulling away from Dom to kiss Eames on either cheek. Her
arms fold easily around his neck, tugging him down, and Arthur misses the heat
of his arm when it pulls away to wrap around her waist.
"Darling," Eames croons, taking a breath, his nose buried in soft-looking hair.
They have a quick argument in french right out in the open where everybody can
hear, and Arthur pretends he can't understand that Eames is complaining about
the pomp and circumstance in between Mal railing at him that he doesn't visit
her often enough.
Dom comes up to shake Arthur's hand and gives him a knowing look.
"Is this how they always are?" Arthur asks, gaze bouncing between the two. Mal
looks exquisite with a blush blooming high in her cheeks. Eames' hands seem too
big on her shoulders as he tries to calm her.
"Pretty much. And, just so you know?" Dom leans in and drops his voice, though
not enough for Mal to not hear him. "She always wins."
"Of course I win," she says, turning her attention to Arthur. "And you must be
dear Arthur." She gives him the same peck on each cheek she gave Eames, then
holds him an arm's length away from her, studying him from head to toe.
"Oh, Eames," she breathes, eyes glittering dangerously. "He's divine. And
perfect for you, too." She ignores Arthur's confusion and Eames strangled groan
and slips her hand through Arthur's arm, curling slim fingers around his elbow.
"Come, come," she orders, leading Arthur into the party before he can figure
out what the hell just happened.
Behind him, Dom pats him on the shoulder.
                                     : : :
The party ends up being closer to a cocktail mixer than...well, the star-
studded extravaganza Arthur had imagined. Not that he's complaining.
It starts with an introduction from the store's owner of Dom, then Dom
introduces Eames. Eames in turn thanks Dom and Mal and everybody else for
attending, hitting his friends and fellow co-authors with a few light insults
about having better things to do with their time and taking notes about how a
real author operates. Then he reads a passage from the new book; nothing long,
about fifteen minutes worth of material, thanks everyone again and asks where
in the hell the bloody alcohol is.
After that, Arthur spends the night making the rounds.
Arthur first meets Mal's father, a kind-faced man with British accent and as
keen an interest in Arthur as Mal seems to have. He owns the publishing
company, and suggests that Arthur keep in touch with Eames and Dom for the
future. It feels somewhat like a brush-off, but Arthur's not phased.
Befriending people that high up in the ranks was not something he expected
right off the bat.
After that, Mal escorts him around the room, introducing him to this reporter
and that critic and another author. When asked who Arthur is in relation to
Eames, she merely says, "a friend of the family." But friend has a little more
weight to it than it should, and the person he's being introduced to sometimes
gives him a knowing look and a sly smile. Especially while shaking hands with
Neil Gaiman. Who is, apparently, a poker buddy of Eames'.
(Arthur may not be into sci-fi, but he knows who Neil fucking Gaiman is and has
the fleeting thought that he might not wash his hand after tonight.)
No matter where Mal leads Arthur, though, Eames always seems to drift over,
champagne glass in one hand, the other hand stuffed in a pocket. He handles the
crowd well, smiling and laughing and being as charming as he ever is, but
Arthur can see the tense set of his shoulders, the way his fingers tap
irritably at the stem of whatever glass he's holding. Several times, Arthur
catches him glancing around without a drink in his hand and Arthur fetches one
for him. The glare Eames gives him after taking a sip and realizing Arthur has
watered it down with some sparkling cider is not amused, but Arthur refuses to
act ashamed.
Once, when Arthur is at a loss for something to do with his hands, Eames
returns the favor, appearing at Arthur's elbow, glass in hand. Arthur
doesn’t even bother to look at it before taking a sip – too busy
tamping down the butterflies in his stomach over Eames’ attentiveness.
He only just misses spitting out the mouthful of champagne, instead swallowing
hard and shooting Eames a scowl. Eames only arches a brow at him and saunters
off, barging his way in on a conversation between a critic and one of the fans.
Arthur also doesn’t miss the way Eames watches him from the corner of
his eye as Arthur walks away to find a conversation of his own.
Mal, Arthur is delighted to discover, is not nearly as bad as Eames made her
out to be. Ok, so she dotes on him a little too much, encouraging him to smile
more, but she doesn’t seem to consider him a project like Eames
predicted. Though she is better at introducing him to all the people she claims
Arthur will need to know than Eames is. Even Dom seems to be impressed with
Arthur, the way he handles himself with the press and world-renowned authors.
He acts almost like a proud father, which is more than a little odd considering
they only just met.
But there are times that Arthur wants to be alone, too. Needing a bit of a
breather, he excuses himself from whatever conversation he's involved in and
wanders around the bookstore, scanning shelves and displays, investigating the
children’s section. The air is cooler there, without the bodies to pen
him in and he takes a moment to catch his breath, to catalog all the people
he’s met in the last few hours, the discussions he’s been a part
of, the knowing looks he’s traded with Eames, whole conversations held
without saying a word. It leaves him a little breathless.
A hand settles against the small of his back, starting Arthur out of his
thoughts. He turns to find Eames, glassless, eyes drunk-bright. “Having
fun?”
“This is amazing,” Arthur says, more awed than he intends. He can
feel the color rising in his cheeks, the dimples cutting deep. His head dips.
“Thank you for asking me to come along.
“I’m glad I did,” says Eames, gently pulling
Arthur’s face up with two fingers under his chin. “You fit here,
you know.”
Arthur scans the crowd and the store. He doesn’t disagree, but he
doesn’t say anything either, relishing the warm spread of Eames’
palm on his back. His body leans into Eames, just a little. Enough so that
their shoulders brush.
Eames’ thumb traces the line of Arthur’s jaw, the skin dry and
soft, and he looks like he’s about to say something when Mal suddenly
appears from out of nowhere.
“It does not do for the guest of honor to hide,” she says, not
quite half-amused.
“I have glad-handed every sodding reporter out there, Mal,” he
grumbles quietly, hand dropping from Arthur’s face. Arthur’s hand
twitches, an aborted attempt to reach out and take Eames’ hand in his
before it falls. “Do allow me to have a moment to breathe.”
She turns to Arthur, her smile brilliant. “Everybody adores you, you
know.” She links her arm through his but doesn’t pull him away
from Eames just yet. Arthur is grateful for it.
“That’s what I’m here for,” he replies, not quite
sure what to say to that.
“I was just about to ask Arthur if he’d like to go,” Eames
breaks in, leaning into Arthur so they’re pressed together from elbow to
shoulder. Arthur doesn’t miss the dangerous sparkle in Mal’s eye.
“No, not yet. It is still so early.” Mal’s accent is
intoxicating, and Arthur finds himself caving under her desire.
He defers to Eames, eyes wide. “Another hour can’t hurt.”
Eames doesn't look convinced. His gaze is intense, dark and heavy. He takes a
deep breath, letting it out slow, eyes never leaving Arthur’s as he
says, “Yeah, all right.”
Mal grabs Arthur’s elbow, delighted, and leads him back into the fray,
saying, “There is someone I would love for you to meet.” As if
Arthur hasn’t already met every single person there. He’s sure he
has.
Arthur is surprised to find more than an hour and a half has passed since he
last looked at his watch. Eames is in a corner, laughing with Neil and China
Miéville. He looks loose and relaxed with a half-full glass of champagne
in one hand. Arthur wants to watch him like this, just for a little bit,
interacting with friends he’s known for years, something Arthur never
gets to see.
Instead, Eames head perks up slightly and he scans the room, searching. He
stops on Arthur and smiles -- the first wide, honest smile Arthur has seen from
him all night – and tips his head toward the front of the store. Arthur
smiles and nods and winds his way between the lessening crowd to get to the
front.
Mal, of course, stops him before he can set a foot out the door, but
she’s smiling and presses the handles of a shiny silver bag into his
palm. “Gift bags from the company,” she explains, smoothing
errant curl from his forehead. “I made sure you got one of the good
ones.”
“Uh, thanks,” Arthur says, his brain fuzzy from alcohol, his
eloquence long since used up.
Her hand is cool on his neck as she makes him lean down and presses her cheek
to each of his. “It was lovely to meet you, Arthur. I’m sure
we’ll see each other again.” Her face is open and warm and she
clasps one of his hands between the two of hers before letting him leave.
Eames is just outside the door, having slipped out before Mal could catch him.
He's lost his tie since the quiet moment they shared before Mal dragged Arthur
away, and the top two buttons are undone. In the warm glow from the shop,
Arthur can see a fine sheen of sweat in the hollow of Eames' throat, the curl
of the tattoo on his collarbone. Arthur wants to lick it. He wets his lips
instead and doesn't miss Eames' gaze dropping to his mouth.
"Our car will be here in a tick," Eames says, eyes dark in the dim light.
"That's fine. I could use the fresh air." And he could, the air in the bookshop
had been warm, close to stifling, especially in his suit. The July night isn't
cool by definition, but he feels like he can breathe again. Almost. He tips his
head back to force himself to look away from Eames and the stubble that's
appeared, framing his perfect, pink lips. His eyes slip closed and he breathes
deep.
There are other people milling about on the sidewalk, waiting for their cars or
a taxi, so the both of them keep quiet. Arthur thinks maybe Eames is still
watching him, thinks he can feel the weight of Eames gaze, but the light breeze
through his hair feels good and he focuses on that instead, reaches up to untie
his tie.
After several long, quiet moments, with Arthur listening to muted conversations
and the random clicking of heels against pavement, Eames sounds far away when
he calls for Arthur, and Arthur looks up, surprised to find Eames in the street
on the far side of the car. He murmurs something to the driver, then raps his
knuckles on the door and slides into the backseat. Arthur ducks into the back
from the curb side.
There are several things Arthur wants to say to Eames now that they're alone.
He settles on, "You're such a goddamn liar," because I had a great time and
This was amazing sound too end-of-the-date right now.
Eames has his head tipped back against the seat and legs splayed out in front
of him, every single part of him looking utterly relaxed. "Pardon?" he asks,
rolling his head to the side to look at Arthur, eyebrows arched.
Arthur gestures at the space around them, indicating the car, and the shop
disappearing behind them. "You spent two weeks telling me how awful this would
be, preparing me for the fucking gallows, practically. But you had fun. You
like doing this. Meeting the fans, at least."
Eames lifts his hand and scrubs it through his hair, working out whatever he'd
used to keep it all in place. Arthur is only a little upset he didn't get to do
that himself. "Well, I couldn't let you think this would be easy now, could I?"
Eames says, voice rough and slightly amused.
"Oh no, let the novice think he's facing down dragons," Arthur's tone is
serious, but he can't help the sly smile, the droop of his eyelids.
Eames sobers and straightens himself out. "There are many words I would use to
describe you, Arthur, but novice isn't one of them. You were brilliant
tonight."
Arthur grins, sheepish. He hadn't been fishing for compliments, really, but any
time Eames compliments him sets his skin buzzing. Arthur can't seem to stop it.
Especially with Eames watching him, eyes glittering dangerously in the dark.
The weight of it makes Arthur's breath catch.
Before either of them can say anything more, a bright white light catches
Arthur's attention out of the corner of his eye and he turns to see the White
House slipping by, the Washington Monument looming tall in front of them.
Washington D.C. lit up for the night is something Arthur has never seen and, he
realizes, it's also the long way back to their penthouse. He doesn't want to
think about the implications of that, but the butterflies in his stomach have
other ideas.
Arthur sits back against the seat and lets his head loll, mimicking Eames
posture, with his hands folded over his stomach. His breathing sounds a little
ragged to his own ears, so he tries to concentrate on smoothing it out. When
that doesn't work, he says, "Mal wasn't as bad as you made her out to be,
either."
Eames chuckles. "Yes, well, you did let her lead you around all night.
Acquiescence tends to put people on her good side."
Arthur makes a small moue of displeasure. "You make me sound like a puppy."
Eames' hand reaches up to Arthur's face and he thumbs at the small crease
between Arthur's eyes. "Never that," he croons, adding a deep purr to the words
that has Arthur leaning into his touch.
His fingertips brush against Arthur's hairline and Eames sighs, pushes his hand
through fully and works out the pomade until Arthur can feel stiff curls
brushing against his neck. "This was the only disappointment of the night,"
Eames says, rubbing lazy circles behind Arthur's ear. It sets cascading shivers
tripping down his spine and he reaches up, wraps slim fingers around Eames'
thick wrist. He can feel the slight shift of muscle under the skin and isn't
sure if he's trying to hold Eames in place or push him away. Subtly, the
fingers stretch out over his scalp to curl around the nape of his neck.
"My...hair was the disappointment?" Arthur asks, distracted by the way Eames is
getting closer. The way he licks his lips, making them shine pink each time the
car passes a streetlight. His free hand lands flat on Eames' chest, stopping
his forward progress.
"You looked too uptight like that. Even more so than usual." His grin is
fleeting and his grip on Arthur's neck tightens.
Even with Arthur's hand between them, they're close; his words gusting over
Arthur's lips. It would be so easy for Arthur to lean in and take what he's
been wanting to since day one; to lick at those perfectly obscene lips, open
Eames up and learn what he tastes like, what they would feel like pressed chest
to chest. But Eames has been drinking champagne for most of the night and, as
much as Arthur wants this, he's not about to take advantage of a drunk Eames,
either.
"Are you drunk?" Arthur asks, his voice an octave lower than usual. He watches
Eames' eyes, looking for confusion, blurriness, madness. All of the above. What
he sees dark, wide pupils, startling coherency. Heat.
Eames' answer is a clipped, "no," that he barely gets out before Arthur leans
forward and kisses him.
It's just a light press of lips, a quiet sound of surprise from Eames. Arthur
can taste the champagne on his breath, can feel the ratcheting of Eames'
heartbeat under his palm. Eames' lips are as soft as Arthur imagined, softer
even, clinging to his as he pulls away.
Arthur licks his lips once, Eames' dark, glittering eyes track the movement,
and his breath hitches. The thumb behind his ear presses gently, guiding, and
Arthur follows easily enough, tilting his head as their mouths meet again. He
feels acutely aware of each sensation this time; the scrape of Eames' stubble,
the lushness of his lips, the slick-rough texture of his tongue and how
carefully he licks at the seam of Arthur's lips, coaxing them open.
Eames' mouth is hot and wet and Arthur feels himself sink into it, sink into
Eames. His hand shifts and a finger slips into Eames' shirt, the pad of it
rubbing over hot, dry skin and rough hair. Arthur feels the vibration of a purr
start in Eames' chest and work its way out, warming him all over when it slips
from Eames' mouth to his own.
There's a light tug on his hair and Arthur shows his displeasure by nipping at
Eames' lower lip. This is what he's been dreaming of all summer, kissing Eames,
breathing his air, feeling their bodies pressed together, and he's not ready
for it to end yet. Sure, it's awkward in the car, his neck angled oddly and the
driver right there--
Arthur stops, head tipped down so his nose is tucked next to Eames'. Eames'
lips are still parted, breath gusting hot over Arthur's mouth and chin, and
he's smiling. Arthur can feel it even with his eyes closed. Sharp fingernails
scratch lightly at his nape.
"We're here, Arthur," Eames says, voice low and rough and warm.
From the corner of his eye, Arthur can see the bright white glow of their
building in the night, lit up with strategically placed spotlights. He moves
slow and deliberate; taking his hand from Eames' chest first, then pulling
away, sliding far enough away that he can open the door. Eames follows close
behind, a long line of heat and arousal at Arthur's back.
Arthur's grateful for the night, its darkness and solitude. There is only the
doorman of the building to greet them, and he looks them straight in the eye as
he bids them a good evening. Arthur only blushes a little, knowing how he must
appear with his hair disheveled and lips kiss-swollen, erection not-so-subtly
ruining the line of his slacks. The teenager in him wants to rush through the
lobby to get to the elevators, get upstairs and peel Eames out of his clothes,
touch him all over. But the adult in him wins out, keeps his strides long and
slow, his spine straight and his hands to himself, even through the ride up. He
doesn't look at Eames once the entire time, unable to trust himself to not
start kissing him again, knowing that if he does, he won't want to stop.
In the entrance of the penthouse, Arthur hears a muffled thud as the doors shut
behind them, and he turns to find the silver gift bag Mal had handed to him
resting on top of the sideboard. He looks up at Eames then, finally, and
swallows hard at the blatant want in Eames eyes. The lighting here is subtle,
but still brighter than in the car, and Arthur can see how wide Eames' pupils
are, rimmed with a mere sliver of grey blue.
Eames takes a step forward; Arthur doesn't move. His heart beats wildly in his
chest, thumping so hard Arthur thinks his ribs will ache in the morning. Eames
takes another step, then another, and then he's there, solid and heavy and
kissing Arthur, hands gripping tight to his waist. Dimly, Arthur registers that
he's moving, two steps back until his back hits the wall, and Eames' knee slips
between his legs, grinds into his cock and Arthur moans, hands clutching tight
to Eames' biceps for leverage.
They kiss for long minutes, not at all like how it was in the car. This is
bruising, reckless; the wet sounds of tongues tangling, sharp teeth biting and
nibbling, sucking and licking, and each of them taking. Arthur can't breathe,
doesn't want to if it means stopping this, pulling away. Eames does anyway,
forehead resting against Arthur's, chest crushing Arthur's as he gulps in air
half made up of Arthur's exhales.
Arthur wants to say something here, the words how and why stuck in his throat,
but the careful way Eames is unbuttoning Arthur's shirt stops him, and Arthur
thinks he understands just how fragile this moment is. How one wrong word could
shatter it like so much glass. So Arthur bites his tongue (figuratively) and
nips at Eames' chin (literally) and follows Eames' lead, tugging his shirt from
out of his pants and flicking the buttons open with nimble fingers. His hands
land flat on Eames' chest, soaking in the rich warmth, the sensation of skin on
skin, coarse hair scratching at his palms. Eames is only a second behind him,
having more buttons to fight with, and then they are chest to chest, pelvis to
pelvis.
Eames sucks at Arthur's neck, just over his pulse, using his tongue and teeth
to worry the skin. He's not gentle, not that Arthur minds. He tips his head
back, giving Eames more room, as his hands slide along Eames' sides, under his
arms and around to his back, mapping every inch of the skin he's jerked off to
countless times before. His thumb traces the ridge of a rib, then another. His
fingertips brush over hardening nipples, down to defined abs and a narrow
waist. The small of Eames' back is soft and dry; Arthur's hand fits in it
perfectly.
Arthur whimpers when Eames pulls his leg away, cock aching and bereft without
something to press against. But Eames is making his way down Arthur's body,
sucking kisses into Arthur's chest and stomach, his tongue swirls around
Arthur's belly button. Arthur's head drops without the support of Eames' hands
there, his eyes drawn to the sight of Eames on his knees and panting over
Arthur's cock. Even through two layers of cloth, Arthur can feel each damp
gust. He spears his fingers through Eames' spiked hair, holding him in place.
With great care, Eames unbuckles Arthur's belt, slips the button of his pants
open, and eases the zipper down. Tucking his pinky fingers into the waistband,
right at the swell of Arthur's ass, he draws them down, skimming his fingertips
along the way; eight points of contact that drag deliciously. In the dim light,
his cock looks obscene, jutting out from behind white cotton. There's a damp
spot at the tip and Eames zeros in on it with his mouth open, hands wrapped
around Arthur's thighs.
Eames' tongue is wet and hot, and the material clings awkwardly all along his
cock, rough against sensitive skin. He teases at the crown, a light suction
that makes Arthur's toes curl inside his shoes. His fingers grip Eames' hair
tight and pull him off, and Eames looks up at him, eyelids heavy. "Right," he
says, drawing out the 'r', and pulls Arthur's briefs down around his knees. His
eyes are still on Arthur's as he licks a wet, filthy stripe along the length,
circles the head, and sucks him deep.
Arthur is suddenly starting to regret not having much sexual experience. His
orgasm is winding tight in his belly and he knows he's not going to last long.
Knows if maybe he could look away from Eames' obscene lips wrapped around him,
he could stretch this out a little longer. But he can't, he can't. Eames
bobbing up and down so slow, so slow, his tongue tracing patterns along the
length. His cock is slick-shiny from Eames' mouth, his hot, wet mouth. Eames
hums around him and Arthur whimpers, knows that's the end for him, except--
Except Eames wraps one hand around the base and squeezes. Sinks down until his
lips meet his hand and Arthur startles, gripping Eames' hair tight against the
need to thrust, to come. Eames looks up at him through the fan of his lashes
and winks at Arthur, pulling off until just the crown is in his mouth and
teases the slit with the tip of his tongue. Arthur's cock pulses and Eames
smears the precome along Arthur's length with the flat of his tongue.
With his hand still around Arthur, Eames drags his tongue along the crease of
Arthur's hip, bites a kiss into the spur of it, then noses his way down,
nipping at the delicate skin. Further down, he mouths at Arthur's balls, the
tip of his tongue tracing along the seam. Dimly, Arthur registers Eames' palm
on his ass, fingertips tracing along the cleft, slow and knowing. Arthur pushes
into it, traps Eames' hand between his body and the wall, and Eames chuckles,
low and dirty.
He takes Arthur into his mouth again and starts bobbing up and down in earnest,
keeping things wet and messy. Arthur's eyes keep flicking between the wet shine
of his cock and Eames' glistening pink lips. Eames' hand starts to drag, still
tight, up and down, and it feels like he's trying to pull Arthur's spine out,
vertebrae by vertebrae. The only thing keeping Arthur standing at this point is
the wall at his back and Eames at his front, and he groans low at the ache
building, skittering across his nerve endings.
Arthur's hips begin to hitch, tiny, abortive movements that thrust him deeper
into Eames' mouth. The head of his cock drags against the roof of Eames' mouth
with each shove, and suddenly the hand on his is moving. Closer, fingers
spreading Arthur open just enough so Eames can brush one against his hole,
gentle and searching.
Arthur shouts Eames' name and comes without warning. Eames, for his part,
doesn't seem to mind; pumps Arthur with his mouth and hand until he's empty.
His free hand grips Arthur's ass, keeping him upright while Eames sucks him
clean. He keeps going, long after Arthur is finished, and Arthur has to push
him away, his sensitive cock twitching at every touch. With a kiss to Arthur's
groin, just above the base of his cock, Eames eases Arthur's briefs up, about
two seconds before Arthur sinks to his knees and ends up half in Eames' lap.
They both are panting, breathless, Eames with a self-satisfied smirk on his
face. Arthur, smiling, presses his thumb to the corner; there's a drop of come
that Eames missed, and he pulls away to taste himself, but Eames is quicker.
Wraps thick fingers around Arthur's wrist and swipes his tongue over Arthur's
thumb, his lips follow. He takes it in all the way to the last knuckle, tongue
flicking against the webbed skin there, and pulls off, humming.
Arthur sits up on his knees, slotting one in between Eames', and leans in for a
kiss, wanting to see what he tastes like on Eames' tongue. Eames' clean hand
sneaks around Arthur's back, underneath his open shirt and jacket, and pulls
him close. Arthur can feel the heat of Eames' cock, hard and heavy, against his
thigh; he presses closer and Eames groans.
His hands scrabble at Eames' stomach, fingertips brushing over the gothic 'rf'
tattooed there, to get at his pants, as clumsy as Eames was practiced. Arthur
is trying to do this by feel, unwilling to pull out of the kiss and look down,
but his fingers are still dulled from the orgasm and the zipper seems
especially stubborn. Eames clasps Arthur's wrists, stilling them, and pulls
away; kisses the corner of Arthur's mouth, his jaw, the skin under his ear.
"Have you done this before?" Eames asks, patient.
"No," Arthur says around a swallow. Then corrects himself. "Yes. Once." He
frowns at the flickering memory of Jake , doesn't want it invading what he has
here and now.
Eames seems to understand and rises up on his knees to open the zipper and push
his pants and boxers down. Arthur's hands hang in midair, where Eames left
them, until Eames sits back, and then they fall to his thighs.
One hand reaches out to wrap around Eames, the skin blood-warm and damp in
Arthur's palm. Eames' cock jerks at the contact, precome pearling from the slit
and collecting in the foreskin. Arthur slicks through it with his thumb and
Eames groans.
Arthur is careful at first, unfamiliar with how foreskin works. He keeps his
hand loose and his rhythm slow, working Eames from base to crown. With a hand
around Arthur's neck, Eames pulls him forward, pressing their cheeks together.
Arthur wants to look down to watch, to make sure he doesn't do something wrong,
but Eames nips at his earlobe to stop him.
"You have to feel it," he says, voice thick with need. "You'll figure it out."
Then his hand closes around Arthur's, their fingers neatly slotting together,
and he guides Arthur. Shows him how tight he should hold Eames, how fast he
should go. How far the foreskin pulls back and where to drag the pad of his
thumb to make Eames buck into the circle of his fingers.
The sounds Eames makes feel louder right against Arthur's ear, but he relishes
each moan, each filthy word that is breathed into his skin. He slings his arm
around Eames shoulders and pulls him closer, hides his smile in Eames' hair.
Eames makes more noise than Arthur did. Broken sounds deep in his throat,
seemingly ripped from him with each stroke, each pass of Arthur's thumb over
the head. Arthur can hear the slick sounds they make underneath the steady
litany of "Arthur, Jesus Arthur," and Eames' hand is a tight fist at Arthur's
back, pulling him close, keeping him still.
Eames bites down on Arthur's neck when he comes, teeth sinking into the soft
flesh and making Arthur yelp. Eames' free hand cups the head, saving
Arthur’s clothes from being ruined, if not his own as well. Arthur keeps
stroking him, though, intent on getting everything from Eames, just like he did
for Arthur.
Eames goes boneless, after, with his head tucked close to the curve of Arthur's
neck, his hand resting carefully on Arthur's thigh. Arthur's knees ache and
he's sure Eames' do too, and he wants to press in close, feel Eames stretched
out next to him, but he can't move for the pants tangled around his legs, and
he belatedly realizes he still has Eames' softening cock in his hand. Arthur
lets go to skim sticky fingers over Eames' stomach, his sides. He lands soft
kisses on Eames' ear, his neck, the downy hair at his nape. Arthur feels
suddenly sleepy and Eames' heat does nothing to stop how cozy he feels, wrapped
up in Eames.
A shrill rings breaks the silence, overly-harsh in the awkward afterglow.
Arthur recognizes it as his own ring tone and is confused by the volume. He
reaches for the pocket of his jacket, expecting to find his phone. He doesn't.
Eames is sitting up now, too, looking sleepy and disgruntled. Arthur gets to
his feet first and pulls his pants up, then helps Eames to do the same. He
leaves Eames to fish a handkerchief from his pocket and clean up his own hand
as Arthur searches for the phone, finds it laying on the sideboard just as the
last echo of the ringtone fades away.
"I thought I took this with me," he says, thumbing at the screen. Eames is
behind him, hands on Arthur's shoulders, easing Arthur's jacket off as he leads
him toward the stairs.
Eames says, "I took it from you when you weren't looking," and suckles lightly
at a spot just beneath Arthur's hairline. Arthur's free hand comes up to cup
Eames' head and he moans, head dipping forward to give Eames more room.
"It's my mom," he explains, flipping the phone to speaker so they can both
listen to the voicemail while they walk up the stairs.
"I hope you had a wonderful time tonight, sweetheart. I'm sure you impressed
everybody there. You always do." Arthur smiles fondly at the pride in her
voice, not yet registering the loss of Eames' mouth and hands from his body. "I
hope Mr. Eames is taking good care of you. I love you, Arthur." It ends with
two kissing sounds, then a robotic voice telling him what time the message was
left.
Arthur turns to Eames, chuckling. "I keep telling her it's just Eames, but she
won't listen." Eames smile is smaller, more brittle, so Arthur wraps his arm
around Eames' waist to kiss it away. Eames even lets Arthur guide them to the
doorway of his bedroom. "I don't know about you," he whispers huskily into the
shell of Eames' ear, "but I'm wiped." He tries to pull Eames into the room, but
Eames doesn't move.
"I'm not going to sleep with you, Arthur," Eames says, voice a little
strangled. His palms are on Arthur's shoulders, gently pushing him away. Arthur
reluctantly allows it.
"We don't have to do anything. Just sleep." Arthur holds his hands up, palms
facing Eames. "I'll even promise to keep my hands to myself. Mostly." His grin
tilts as he starts shrugging out of his shirt.
Eames is leaning against the door frame, hands in his pockets, eyes soft.
"C'mere," he murmurs, and Arthur does. His slips one hand out to reel Arthur in
by the neck and he leans in to kiss him, soft and slow and so gentle it makes
Arthur's heart feel too full. Eames’ palm is warm, and his chest is
solid against Arthur's, matching him heartbeat for heartbeat. His arms loop
around Eames' neck on instinct, closing the space between them.
With one last feeble attempt at seduction, Arthur takes a step back and tries
to pull Eames along with. He doesn't budge, though, and Arthur makes a small
moue of displeasure, using all of his youngest child tricks to get what he
wants. Eames remains stubborn, his voice firm when he says, "Good night,
Arthur." The line of his shoulders is set, too, as he turns and walks away.
Despite that, Arthur can't stop himself from grinning. He barely remembers to
hang his suit on its hanger and slip his pajama pants on before crawling into
bed. The sheets are cool on his heated skin, the complete opposite of how
Eames' body felt, and Arthur falls asleep thinking about the texture of lush,
pink lips and strong, broad hands.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Arthur wakes up before his alarm goes off, eyes squinting against the sunlight,
mind still clinging to the fading tendrils of his dreams. He smiles at the
memory of them, tame compared to some of his Eames-shaped dreams, but more
obscene in other ways. More real, too, was the wet heat of his mouth on
Arthur's cock, his tongue teasing at the slit. His rough-skinned hands skimming
up Arthur's thighs and groin to stop at Arthur's hips and pin him to the wall.
How he tasted like come and sweat and champagne when he kissed Arthur and
allowed Arthur to jerk him off.
He rolls out of bed, lets the sun warm his skin as he twists and stretches and
yawns. Outside his window, the city is just starting to come to life. A handful
of joggers pass underneath his window and Arthur feels the familiar itch his
legs. Unfortunately, the running clothes he'd worn on the trip up are still in
a wrinkled pile on the floor at the end of the bed.
In the bathroom, he goes through his usual routine; belly scratch, groin
scratch, piss, wash his hands. He looks up then, to scan his face and run a
damp hand through his hair, and that's when he sees it: a dark red smudge on
his neck, fading to pink and yellow around the edges. It's not large, but it
aches a little now that Arthur is reminded of it. Even more so when he turns
his head or presses his fingertips to it.
He stares at it for a long time, remembering just how Eames' mouth felt against
the skin there, how sharp his teeth were. His tongue laving over the spot only
once. Arthur can't help but smile, and then he's shoving his pajama pants and
underwear down over his hardening cock to get a good look at his hips. He
smiles at the thumbprint bruises, the four fingerprints shadowing the curve of
his ass when he twists to the left.
Not a dream, he thinks, giddy and horny all over again. His cock jerks, and he
gives it a squeeze, reaches for a pump of the lotion on the vanity and strokes
himself into full hardness. It doesn't take long for him to come, especially
with the memory of Eames' lips, pink and filthy, wrapped around his cock.
Arthur's gasping groan echoes, lewd, against the tiles in the bathroom and he
rinses his hands and his cock and the sink down after. Before he can turn back
to the bedroom, his gaze lands on the mirror -- on the imprint of Eames' mouth
on his neck -- and a hot rush of panic wells up in the back of his throat.
He wanders around his room, straightening up his shoes and socks, Eames' cuff
links tossed carelessly on the bureau, to burn off his of nervous energy. It's
his first morning after, and he isn't sure how he's supposed to act; if he's
allowed to touch Eames, to press in close and kiss him good morning. He knows
that's what he wants, at least, but Arthur has so rarely gotten what he wants
when it comes to sex and anxiety twists hard in his chest. Casting a sidelong
glance at his clothes on the floor, Arthur sighs; going for a run would be a
comfort now, a way for him to clear his mind before having to face Eames. But
then he hears Eames pass by outside his door, which significantly narrows his
chances of sneaking out without Eames noticing. Instead, he does a few dozen
jumping jacks to try and shake the nerves. It works, for the most part.
He is still anxious, though, standing at the window again. His arms and legs
feel jittery, and he casts a sidelong glance at his clothes on the floor. Going
for a run would be a comfort now, a way for him to clear his mind before having
to face Eames. But then he hears Eames pass by outside his door, which
significantly narrows his chances of sneaking out without Eames noticing.
Instead, he does a few dozen jumping jacks to try and shake the nerves. It
works, for the most part.
Eames is at the table when Arthur gets there, showered and dressed and reading
the morning's paper over a cup of tea. He doesn't look up at first, so Arthur
leaves him to finish his article and fixes himself a cup of coffee. It isn't
chilly in the penthouse, but the hot mug feels good clasped between his hands,
and his sips carefully, watching the minute shift of the tendons in Eames' hand
as he reaches for his tea and sips. He remembers in vivid detail how that hand
felt on his body, his cock. Already, he feels it thickening.
"Good morning, Arthur," Eames greets, folding the paper closed and still not
looking at Arthur. Arthur doesn't mind, really. From this vantage point, he can
watch the play of muscles under sky blue shirt, the stretch of navy blue slacks
around Eames' thick thighs.
Arthur never got a chance to explore those last night. One of the many regrets
he hopes he gets a chance to fix tonight. Maybe.
Eames steps up to the sink at Arthur's side and rinses out his cup. Arthur can
feel a curtain of damp heat around Eames, as if he just got out of the shower,
and he leans into it a little; Eames' shirtsleeve drags over Arthur's bare arm
and leaves goose bumps in its wake.
"There's been a bit of a schedule change, I'm afraid," Eames says, chipper, but
distant. Arthur hides his frown behind his coffee. "Dom rearranged some of my
interviews, so we'll be leaving this afternoon instead of tomorrow morning.
Please have your things ready when I get back."
He heads for the sideboard to collect his Blackberry and the penthouse keys.
"Eat anything you like," he continues, gesturing at the table and the half
dozen platters of pancakes, French toast, bacon, and fresh fruit, among other
things. "If you'd like something else, just call downstairs, they can have it
delivered. I should be back around one." He tosses the last over his shoulder,
standing in front of the elevator, still not having looked at Arthur.
Arthur has followed him, not entirely like a confused puppy, and stands at the
edge of the foyer, where hardwood floor transitions to the kitchen's tile.
"Eames," he says, half confused, half pleading. He doesn't mean for it to come
out that way, but of all the ways he thought this morning would go, Eames not
looking at him was not among them.
Arthur tries to write it off as mentally preparing for the day's worth of
interviews Eames is about to do, but then Eames turns and sighs, "Yes, Arthur?"
complete with heaving shoulders, and his gaze slides easily from Arthur's eyes
to the mark on his neck. Even from a distance, Arthur can see his pupils are
black. Arthur knows what that means in his head: that Eames is attracted to
Arthur. The frustrating thing is, that knowledge doesn't jive with Eames'
behavior. Even with the possibility that he is preoccupied.
"I just…" Arthur squirms, one hand fluttering about, wanting to act
casual and cover up his naked torso at the same. Instead, he rewraps it around
his mug and soaks in the heat, suddenly, achingly chilly. "I'll see you at
one," he says, feeling more than a little lame.
Eames nods at the same time the elevator dings its arrival, and Arthur watches
his back until the doors glide shut.
                                     : : :
The drive home isn't any better. Arthur is a live wire, couldn't fall asleep if
he wanted to, and Eames insists on playing the radio full blast, even with the
top down. Every once in awhile, Arthur taps Eames on the arm and motions at his
own ears and Eames turns the volume down a few decibels, but if they happen to
slow down, he turns it right back up again. It makes it difficult for Arthur to
concentrate on his new toy from Mal's gift bag; a sleek new iPad, leather
carrying case included.
"She managed to get ten to auction off for charity," Dom had explained earlier
that afternoon while Eames loaded their bags into the car. "Eleven,
technically. She wanted to make sure you got one." It wasn't just the iPad in
the bag, it also included matching bottles of Bvlgari parfum and cologne, an
exquisite Tiffany watch, a gift certificate for a two-night stay at a bed and
breakfast in Martha's Vineyard, and a signed hardcover edition of Eames'
previous book. Arthur had nodded with a vague recollection of a table filled
with other items for silent auction at the bookshop.
"Please be sure to tell Mal thank you for me," Arthur said, positive that he
forgot to say it the night before. Dom nodded and shook his hand, and then
Arthur turned to get settled in the car, leaving Eames to say his own good-
byes.
Arthur has an iPhone, which isn't all that different from the iPad, but he's
engrossed in the iPad anyway, if only because it's something to do other than
sit in the car and angst like a sullen teenager over the change in Eames
between him leaving Arthur and waking up in the morning.
He does a Google search of Eames' name, curious to see if there are any
articles of the night before out yet, but not really expecting anything. Of
course he would be proven wrong, getting half a dozen hits at the top of the
list, all published within the last twelve hours. He selects one at random, and
is greeted by a not-small picture of Eames, his arm around Arthur's waist.
Arthur studies himself first, the cut of his suit, the glint of silver and onyx
at his wrists, his hair slicked back. He's smiling slightly, the shadow of a
dimple cutting into the one visible cheek. His head is dipped down a little,
his eyes closed, and his nose is a hair's breadth away from Eames'.
Eames, too, is smiling, leaning into Arthur as Arthur is leaning into him.
Arthur can see the whiteness of Eames' knuckles, fingers gripping tight to his
hip, and his other hand is clasped around Arthur's wrist. Arthur wraps his own
fingers around the same spot, but they're slim and cool, soft. The exact
opposite of Eames.
The caption underneath reads, "Author Daniel Eames posing with his date, Arthur
Cohen. Washington DC" Arthur freezes at the words, thumb hovering over the word
'date'. More than anything, he is shocked to see his name there; 'And friend,'
would've made more sense. He's a nobody, especially next to Eames. But then he
remembers Mal. The iron grip of her delicate hands, leading him from one group
to the next, emphasizing his name just as much as Eames', and he smiles. Of
course she would make sure he was credited properly. Arthur thinks he might be
starting to understand what Eames meant about Mal liking projects.
He scans a few of the other articles he finds, some with pictures, some
without. Some pictures have his name, others don't. Each article, though, is
favorable. If not toward the book, then at least of Eames. Not that Arthur is
surprised. Eames could charm candy from a baby without breaking a sweat.
But under it all, their picture remains open. Arthur's gaze falls on the top
button of Eames' shirt, as if just by the power of his mind alone, he could
make it open spontaneously and reveal the shadowed hollow of Eames' throat
right there. Arthur licks his lips and remembers what that skin tastes like.
He remembers, too, how it felt to fit his body against Eames', like two puzzle
pieces slotting together. How wide his hand was on Arthur's back. How right it
felt to have Eames' arm around him, have Eames watching him, aware of Arthur,
even from across the room.
Or later, in the car, with Eames' hand in his hair and his lips so soft. Later
yet, in their penthouse, with those same lips wrapped around his cock, plush
and wet, shiny even in the dim light of the foyer. The velvety heat of Eames'
cock and how wrecked he sounded growling out Arthur's name as he came.
Frustrated and confused and tired of Eames' silent treatment, Arthur tilts the
iPad toward him and says, "We clean up well."
"Hmm?" Eames, of course, is focused on the road. Can barely manage to grant
Arthur a look from the corner of his eye.
"Our picture," Arthur clarifies, bumping the back of his hand against Eames'
knee to draw his attention to the screen. "I look good, right?."
Eames glances down, but only for a second. "Of course you do." He says it like
Arthur just asked him if the sky is blue or the sun rises in the east; like it
means nothing at all.
"You do, too," Arthur tries again, determined to start a conversation even if
Eames is pushing the car to speed down US-29 at eighty miles an hour. Of
course, Eames seems equally determined to keep up the charade and gives Arthur
no reply.
"It's my first picture where I'm not a red, sweaty mess," Arthur tries one last
time.
Eames finally turns to him, one eyebrow cocked. He looks fairly ridiculous,
with his face half-hidden by his aviators, his bottom lip red and puffy from
where he's been chewing on it. Yet Arthur is hit with a sudden swell of want
deep and heavy in his gut. He wants to grab Eames face, push off his glasses,
and force him to look Arthur in the eye. Force him to explain why he's acting
this way.
Instead, he clarifies: "Cross country meets? I'm all hot and sweaty. Y'know,
after the races." The explanation sounds lame, even to Arthur, but it's better
than the What did I do wrong?, that gets stuck low in his throat, slowly
choking him.
"Right." Eames stares for one last moment, then turns the music up and pushes
the car that much faster.
                                     : : :
Despite his frustration and confusion, Arthur manages to doze off during the
last hour of the drive and doesn't wake up until Eames hits the low spot in his
driveway. He blinks away the ghostly fingers of a wretched dream, one where
Eames backs him into a wall, hand working Arthur's cock through his pants and,
just as Arthur is about to come, Eames walks away, laughing. The cruel twist of
his mouth is burned into the backs of Arthur's eyelids.
Pulling into the garage, Eames murmurs a low, "Home at last," more to himself
than to Arthur. Arthur bites back a bitter laugh and wonders to himself how
being back at the cabin will be any different from being in the penthouse.
Other than the location.
He follows Eames into the house, leaving half a dozen steps between them.
Despite the circumstances, it does feel good to be home, in a place he's
comfortable in. He dumps his duffel on the floor at the bottom of the stairs,
slings his garment bag over the banister, and makes his way to the kitchen from
where he can hear the clatter of a bottle cap hitting the countertop.
"Leave your suit out if you want," Eames says after taking a long pull from his
beer. "I'll drop them by Mac's tomorrow."
Arthur nods but doesn't say anything. He can only watch Eames' Adam's apple bob
with each swallow. Each tiny shift seems to stoke the fire in Arthur's gut, the
part of him that's still the only boy in an all-female family, that's not used
to not being paid attention to, even if the very last thing he wants is
attention.
His gaze tracks Eames' journey around the kitchen as he opens and closes
cabinets, the freezer, the refrigerator. "What do you feel like for dinner?"
Eames finally asks, still not looking Arthur.
"I feel like talking." Arthur's voice is flat and he struggles not to cross his
arms over his chest. He's not the one who should be feeling defensive.
Eames stills, one eyebrow arched, and focuses his attention on a point just
beyond Arthur's head. "I believe that's what we're doing, Arthur. Unless I
missed a memo?"
"I don't mean this small talk bullshit."
"Arthur--"
"We kissed." It isn't exactly what Arthur was thinking, but it's a better place
to start than What's wrong with me.
Eames sighs, his whole body heaving with it, and leans back against the
cabinet. His head hangs low, chin hitting his chest, and his arms cross, the
beer tucked in the crook of his elbow.
"We kissed," Arthur says again, softer this time, almost pleading. "And
you—we got each other off. Last night. You can't tell me I dreamed it. I
have the proof." Eames gaze is still focused on the floor, but Arthur opens his
oxford anyway, pulling the collar away from his neck to expose the mouth-shaped
bruise there.
"I'm aware of what we did," Eames says to the floor.
"Then what happened between last night and this morning?" It's a struggle not
to shout it, to not get in Eames' face and make him look at Arthur. Quietly,
almost hilariously, Arthur's phone chimes in his pocket.
"I sobered up." Eames swallows the last of his beer and turns to the sink,
plants his hands against the counter and hunches over it.
Arthur's phone keeps ringing and his shoves a hand in his pocket to retrieve
it. "You told me last night you weren't drunk."
There is a minute shift to Eames' shoulders, almost a shrug. "I was wrong. Are
you going to answer that?"
Arthur glances at the display and frowns. "It's my mom." He swipes a thumb over
the screen to send her to voicemail.
"You should answer it," Eames says, his voice unnaturally quiet.
"She can wait," Arthur says, searching for the thread of their conversation.
Something is tickling at the back of his mind, feather-light yet important. He
fiddles with the phone in his hands.
"I think she's waited long enough," Eames sighs. He spins away from the sink,
and there's something in the movement, in the stiff line of Eames' shoulders
that's setting off alarm bells for Arthur.
He darts forward to place a hand on Eames' arm, stopping him mid-step. "Wait,
Eames. Is this about my mother? That's when you freaked out, isn't it? Last
night? After she called." Arthur wants to laugh at the ridiculousness of it,
one little phone call dousing a month's worth of smoldering chemistry.
"I'm fairly certain 'freaked out' is overstating it--"
"Well," Arthur drawls, "Considering you had my cock in your mouth before it
happened, and now you can barely talk to me, let alone look at or touch me?" He
shrugs and lets his hand drop. "I'd say 'freaked out' is being generous."
"I am not. Freaked. Out." Eames bites out, turning halfway so he can look
Arthur in the eye. The icy fire in them should make Arthur pause, but it's more
feeling from Eames than he's seen all day. It makes Arthur surprisingly bold.
"Then what about my mother calling had you turning off your libido like it was
a light switch? 'Cause I know you wanted it, Eames. I know you did." He shoves
his phone back into his pocket to keep from crushing it in his fist.
Eames sighs and his whole body seems to deflate. Even the hard look in his eyes
disappears, replaced with quiet resignation. "When you're here, when it's just
us and we're discussing books or politics or, anything else, it's easy to
forget how young you are."
Arthur snorts; it's undignified and, frankly, immature, but right at this
moment, he doesn't give a damn. "I'm eighteen, Eames. Completely legal. Two
years past, in some states."
"You don't automatically turn into an adult the second you turn eighteen,
Arthur. Maturity comes with time." It seems that Eames is making up for lost
time, staring Arthur down with flashing eyes. The weight of it settles on
Arthur's shoulders, even as he continues to fight back, more confused than
ever, with a hard, sour knot sinking low in his gut. Bright red neon flashes
behind his eyes, warning him to stop pushing. He can't; he doesn't.
"I didn't know maturity was a prerequisite to having sex." It sounds bratty to
his own ears, but he is too far gone, now.
"I didn't say that."
"Then what are you saying?" Arthur winces at the brief, whiny waver in his
voice.
"I'm saying that what I did last night was wrong."
Arthur goes very, very still. Even his lungs and heart seem not to work. "And
you regret it." The words feel ripped from his throat, chased by the acid taste
of bile working its way back up. He doesn't want to know the answer, not
really, but that ship sailed about ten minutes ago.
Eames, to his credit, doesn't answer. He almost manages to seem guilty.
Arthur's hands are trembling and he wants to busy them with something,
anything, just so Eames won't see. But the phone is back in his pocket and
reaching for any old thing feels childish. He clasps them behind his back
instead and says, "You didn't seduce me, you know. You didn't take advantage. I
wanted it as much as you did. Do."
"Arthur, you said it yourself last night, you've never done anything like that
before."
Arthur barks a laugh, the sound too loud in the empty kitchen. "You had just
sucked me off, Eames. You expect me to be thinking clearly?! I'm sorry I didn't
remember jerking Jake off when I was sixteen. I'll try to keep my wits about me
the next time I'm fucking."
Eames winces and finally, finally, his gaze slides from Arthur's. "Once,
Arthur. That's not…That's once. And last night. Last night was
different. The circumstances, the people, the alcohol—"
"Which you handed to me, may I remind you."
"Mal," Eames continues, as if Arthur hasn't spoken. "Last night was special,
and it's only natural that your feelings… That we…"
"Sex, Eames. It's called sex. And quit talking to me like I'm eight." He feels
ridiculous finishing Eames' sentences, both too young and too old at once. The
fight in him fades, but the anger is still there, making his blood run hot. His
hands fall from the small of his back to curl up in fists at his sides. "It
wasn't just last night, either. It's been… from the beginning, Eames.
From the first fucking day."
Eames snaps, then. "Really, Arthur? You're going to give me the 'love at first
sight' routine? You're only proving my point."
"I don't think you have a point."
"My point is that—Look. I get it, okay? You're young, you don't have a
strong male influence in your life. It's only natural that you--"
Arthur's entire body stiffens and his voice drops to a rough whisper as he
says, "If you even think about telling me I have daddy issues, I will punch you
in your face."
Eames sighs, a harsh, wet sigh that sounds almost ripped out of him. "Be that
as it may, what happened last night was a mistake," he says, words clipped
short in that maddening accent of his. He stands up straight, meeting Arthur
eye to eye. "A mistake I won't be making again."
A small part of Arthur wants to follow Eames as he watches him disappear down
the hall to his room. Wants to pin him against the wall and kiss him like they
kissed last night and see. To see for himself and show Eames that no matter
what he mouth says, his body tells another story. But the bigger part of
Arthur, the part that was devastated by Jake's rejection before, is tired and
broken, and it's this part that carries him up the stairs and to a fitful
sleep.
                                     : : :
Despite it being July and, typically, the start of the hottest, driest part of
the summer, work at the nursery keeps Arthur busier than ever. Some is
maintenance for the lake's wealthier residents, but the bulk of it is for
commercial and industrial sites, most of which are at least an hour's drive
away, if not more.
Arthur is rather grateful for it.
After their trip and subsequent "discussion," the atmosphere in the cabin is
strained, to say the least. Downright painful would be more accurate. For as
easy as it was between them before, it's just as difficult now; stilted
conversation replaces companionable silences, aborted movements fill in the
spaces where Eames used to rest his hand on Arthur's back or shoulder, his hip.
And sometimes, when Eames tries to engage Arthur in a conversation about the
latest political debate, Arthur wants to scream and rage and tell Eames he
can't have it both ways.
Because it keeps him away from Eames, Arthur should be grateful for his extra
time on the road to and from jobs, his early morning departures and late
evening arrivals leaving little time for him to bump into Eames when he's not
in the mood to. They are a bit of a double-edged sword, though. Especially if
he's alone in the truck or his own car.
His mind sifts through everything that happened, checking and double-checking
to see if there was anything he could've said or done to change Eames' mind.
Arthur also wonders how he is going to get through the remainder of the summer
without exploding from sexual frustration or awkwardness or both.
At the end of the first week, Arthur comes to the conclusion that his only
choice is to leave. If not to save his sanity, then to save his heart. He
hasn't had the chance to talk to Ariadne or Yusuf about it yet, but he's pretty
sure they wouldn't object to having him as a house guest. Even if they only
have a couch for him to sleep on, it's still better than spending the rest of
his summer horny and miserable.
It's not like his mom would have to know, either. He only ever calls her with
his cell phone, and it's highly unlikely she would trace his emails. It's out
of character for Arthur to deceive his mother quite so blatantly, but it's not
like he could tell to her what really happened, nor could he come up with a
story awful enough to explain why he can't last the rest of the summer.
As for Eames and the fact that he's supposed to be helping Arthur build his
career? Well, as much as Eames would probably be able to fulfill that promise
despite the rather large bump in the road, Arthur isn't sure he could stand it.
Besides, he still has three emails from Mal waiting for his reply. Maybe she
could help with the networking, helping Arthur to avoid Eames altogether.
Eames had been right about her, taking to Arthur like he was some kind of
project. Her attention should feel similar to the way his sisters dote on him,
but it doesn't. Maybe because she hadn't known Arthur when he was in diapers.
Maybe because she is European.
Probably it's because Arthur thought he might be a little bit in love with her.
Somewhat.
The same day Arthur emails Ariadne to make sure they have room for him, Eames
tells Arthur he'll be gone for the next five days to do a short press tour; a
few radio shows, a barrage of TV interviews, and ten minutes on Good Morning
America on Monday morning.
A smug little voice in Arthur's head says this proves just how much Eames wants
him; that Arthur is so irresistible, Eames has to run away to keep from pinning
Arthur to the bed and fucking into him like he so desperately wants.
The other part of Arthur, the sensible part, says this is a time-out for both
of them; a chance to be apart and collect themselves. To reset their
relationship to the beginning, to something more realistic.
Arthur decides he owes it to himself to give it one last shot. If he could get
through Jake's rejection at the tender age of sixteen without much fallout, he
can close himself off long enough to get through the summer, make the
publishing contacts he was sent here to make, and get out with his heart mostly
intact.
Eames leaves Arthur a copy of his itinerary, just in case, with the warning
that everything is subject to change. He won't be leaving until the afternoon,
but it's still long before Arthur will be home from work, and he's looking
forward to having the house to himself. Of all the things he's given up since
fighting with Eames, he misses playing Xbox the most; Eames' warmth beside him
on the couch, Eames nudging his shoulder in playful ribbing, the smile on his
face when he clears a particularly difficult level.
Arthur shakes the vision of it out of his head as he pulls into the driveway,
headlights cutting through the falling darkness. Today had been an extra-long
day of trimming trees with the crew and Arthur thinks he might have woodchips
in places where they should never be. All he can think about is a cool shower
and vegging out in front of the TV with the small selection of sushi he picked
up at the market.
When the house comes into view, his mood falls instantly; the entire house,
save for Eames' bedroom, is lit up, warm golden light pouring through its
dozens of windows. Through the picture window in the living room, he can see
the blue-white flicker of the TV.
After parking the car in its usual spot, Arthur sighs. The rest of his night
might be ruined, but he can at least salvage his dinner. He feels sweaty and
grimy, but he rounds the side of the house and a cool breeze from the lake
revives him. It's not ideal, sitting in the dark to eat, but it's easier to put
off avoiding Eames for a little while longer. Sushi in hand, he settles into a
deck chair and allows himself to enjoy his dinner.
Once he's done and the stress of the day has mostly left his shoulders, Arthur
makes his way inside for a drink. A full pitcher of tea sits eye-level in the
refrigerator, but he reaches for a beer instead, popping the top and downing
half of it in one go. He can hear the low murmur of voices from the living
room, and he has to force himself not to sprint to get to the stairs.
He is so busy trying to look nonchalant, even going so far as to give Eames a
smile and a wave, he doesn't realize it's not Eames on the couch until Ariadne
shouts his name.
"You scared the crap out of me!"
"Ariadne, what the hell?!" He freezes at the sight of her, curled up on one end
of the couch with a large bowl of popcorn in her lap. "How did you get in
here?! Why are you in here?!"
He's still searching for Eames as he takes a step toward her, arms stretched
wide to hug her, then remembers he's still filthy from work. "Hold that
thought. I'll be right back." Taking the stairs two at a time, he showers
quickly, barely drying himself off after, and changes into his favorite pair of
pajama pants and an old sleeveless t-shirt. Downstairs, Ariadne is where he
left her, popcorn mostly gone, and he plops down beside her, wraps an arm
around her shoulders and crushes her to his chest.
For the first time in a week, he is honestly thrilled to be home. As much as
he's made friends at the nursery, gone out with them for pizza or to the movies
or the local amusement park, it's Ariadne and Yusuf that know him best. He'd
been too busy working and lusting after Eames to realize just how much he'd
missed them.
"Arthur," Ariadne pleads, nose tucked dangerously close to his arm pit. "Can't
breathe!"
He lets her go, but not very far, Her hair, when he presses a kiss to the
crown, smells for coconut and the ocean. He takes a long breath of it, stopping
only when his lungs ache. The rush of affection he feels for her right this
second is somewhat overwhelming.
"What are you doing here?" he finally asks on an exhale, the force of it
stirring her hair enough to tickle his nose.
She lifts one shoulder in a half shrug, the look on her face too innocent. "I
was in the neighborhood. Thought I'd drop by."
"Ari."
"I'm here to rescue you."
"I'm pretty sure I can handle packing and driving on my own, Ari."
"Oh, Arthur." Not like that. Her face softens, then, into something fond and
maybe a little sad. She reaches up to brush a damp curl of hair from his
forehead.
Not yet ready to have the conversation she seems to be aiming for, Arthur grabs
the popcorn bowl, says, "You need some more popcorn. Let me get that for you,"
and makes a beeline for the kitchen. Persistent as always, Ariadne follows
right behind. "How'd you get in here, anyway? And where's your car?" Arthur
asks in a valiant attempt to change the subject.
"Mr. Eames--"
"Eames." It comes out as more of a reflex, making Arthur wince. He's grateful
he's facing away from Ariadne, at least, busy punching in numbers on the
microwave.
"What?"
"Just Eames. No mister." He does't look away from the popcorn expanding in the
microwave.
"Right," she drawls, making the word last about seven beats too long. "Eames
was getting ready to leave just as I got here. He had me park in the garage so
you'd be surprised. Don't forget the butter."
Arthur shoots her a dark glare. "You didn't bring Yusuf with you?"
"Couldn't get the time off. Plus, I didn't think he'd be very helpful with this
particular problem." She says it as an afterthought, too focused on making sure
Arthur properly butters the popcorn to pay attention to what she's saying.
Arthur nudges the bowl toward her once he's done and makes his way back into
the living room, Ariadne right behind him. "He's too happy to let people live
their own lives. Be their own people."
"As opposed to you," Arthur says, settling on one end of the couch. He's
grateful that Ariadne sits on the other end. If they're going to have the talk
she seems so insistent they have, he's going to need the space.
"As opposed to me. So, are you going to tell me what happened?"
"With what?"
Ariadne rolls her eyes. "You know exactly what." With one hand, she pops a
kernel of popcorn in her mouth, with the other, she unpauses the DVD player.
Because Arthur is nothing if not a coward, he avoids answering her by looking
at the TV. "Ten Things I Hate About You? Really?? You haven't seen this enough
times yet?"
"It's either that or you tell me what happened." Her mouth tightens into a
thin, firm line, her eyebrows arch.
Arthur huffs and fidgets for long minutes, digging into her thigh with his toes
just to be annoying. About twenty minutes in, where the AV dork is letting some
guy draw a dick on his face in permanent marker, he gives up with a huff.
"Okay, okay. I'll tell you."
He leaves out the non-essential parts of the story; how nervous he was
beforehand, how he had to tie Eames' tie and distract him from his own thought,
how it felt a little like a date, not that Arthur had ever been on one to know
enough what it would feel like. He tells her about meeting Mal and how lovely
she is. How he had a short-lived fanboy moment where he didn't want to wash his
hand after meeting Neil Gaiman.
Then he gets to the part after the party. Kissing in the car, in the foyer,
getting a blow job in the foyer, jerking Eames off. He's told her some of this
before in an email, and he may be leaving the pertinent details out now, but
it's still hard to talk about with Ariadne right there in front of him, popcorn
all but forgotten in her lap.
The day after is the hardest part to get through. Though he's still a little
mad about the whole thing, about stubborn Eames is being, he's mostly confused
and sad. And it all gets caught up in his throat, so that by the time he
finishes, he can barely swallow around it.
Throughout Arthur's story, Ariadne had been leaning in closer and closer. So
close, she almost tipped the bowl from her lap. Once Arthur's done, she exhales
low, leans back against the couch and doesn't say anything for several minutes.
Her voice sounds too loud in the cabin when she finally says, "Let me get this
straight: you essentially spent the night making googly-eyes at each other,
kissed in the car on the way home, then had sex -- more or less -- as soon as
you walked in the front door? And it's a phone call from your mother that has
him running for the hills?"
Arthur nods. "He won't admit to it directly, but yes. That's pretty much the
gist of it."
"I think it's more than just your age, then. What do you know about his past
relationships?"
"Not much. He doesn't talk about himself much. If I hadn't needed to know about
Mal for the party, I doubt I'd know anything at all. Even the research I did on
him before I came didn't tell me much."
"That doesn't sound ominous or anything," she says, frowning.
"It's not like he's a former mobster in hiding, Ariadne."
"Maybe he's not out?"
"Why would a call from my mother remind him of that?"
"Maybe he has mommy issues. Perhaps his own mother disapproves of his
lifestyle? Or," she points at him, eyebrows arched. "He's secretly in love with
her."
Arthur gives her a skeptical look. "An Oedipal complex. That's what you want to
go with?"
"It's not like you've come up with anything better."
"There is one possibility you haven't come up with yet."
"What's that?"
"That he got what he wanted and now he's done with me." The words feel wrong as
he says them, but the thought is something that has been eating at him for a
while.
"Arthur." She says it soft and brushes her fingers over his knuckles.
"It's not like it hasn't happened before," he says, still not looking at her.
"You ran away the last time, too." Her tone is no less hard, but the truth
still stings, leaving a hollow feeling in Arthur's stomach.
"Technically, Jake ran away, not me," says Arthur, voice thick.
"You know what I mean, Arthur. It's not like you to give up."
He looks at her then, eyes sharp. "I don't want to linger where I'm not wanted,
Ariadne."
"Oh, bullshit. You're doing the exact same thing you did when Jake left. You
want to run and hide and keep yourself too busy to think about it. I know you,
Arthur."
"So what if I do, what's wrong with that? It got me salutatorian at
graduation!"
"And that's, awesome, you know we're all proud of you for that, but..." she
trails off, lost in thought. Then, tone softer, she says, "How far are you
going to run this time? Is Delaware far enough? NYU?"
Arthur doesn't know the answer. Or if there even is one.
"You can't hide from every heartbreak, Arthur," she continues. "You think all
relationships are easy? I want to kill Yusuf for one thing or another on a
weekly basis. And he feels the same about me. But that's what makes the good
stuff worth it."
"I think you're presuming some things here if you want to call what Eames and I
have a relationship."
"The word 'relationship' encompasses many things, Arthur. I don't necessarily
mean a romantic one. But what if I do?"
"He's made it fairly clear that's not going to happen." Even though it's been a
week, it still hurts to say it.
"Why does it have to be only about what he wants. You want him, right?" Arthur
scowls. "Then you get him!"
"Ah ha. Ha ha. Ha."
"I'm serious, Arthur. I know you're a seventy-four year old trapped in an
eighteen year old's body, but you're hot. There's a reason he couldn't resist
you. Especially if you were wearing that suit." Her eyes go unfocused and
doesn't want to know what she's thinking about.
"Ariadne--" he means for his tone to be clipped, to snap her out of her
daydream, but it sounds pleading instead. What, exactly, he's pleading for,
Arthur isn't sure.
"No, listen," she says with a tiny shake of her head. "You panicked after Jake,
I understand that, but you can't keep cutting yourself off at the first sign of
disappointment. If you do, you'll be a lonely old man with thirty-seven cats.
And that's too pathetic for even me to abide by. You are a generous, kind,
smart guy with an amazing heart, Arthur. You can't just hide it away. You don't
deserve to be alone."
She glances down in her lap, then, suddenly remembering her popcorn. Her hand
freezes inches from her mouth, one kernel pinched between two fingers, and says
as an after thought, "Plus, that ass."
Arthur ignores the last part. "You say that as if Eames and I are going to be
together forever."
"I'm not saying Eames is the love of your life here, but what's so wrong with
having a little fun? You're eighteen and you're hot. It's a crime you don't
have a different guy in your bed every night of the week. Or the same one every
night, if that's what you want."
He wants to believe her. He may only be eighteen, but he does get lonely, too,
seeing the what other couples have. The closeness that Ariadne and Yusuf have,
sharing their lives with each other. Arthur craves that. And, though he'd never
admit it out loud, Ariadne is right: there is nothing wrong with having a
little fun.
                                     : : :
It's nice having Ariadne around, even if Arthur has to work for most of the
time she's there. He shows her around the his nursery, takes her to the
amusement park and introduces her to his friends, and gets her to unwittingly
jump in the lake, just like he did on his first day. When she finally climbs
out, Arthur isn't watching where he's standing and she takes advantage by
shoving him in, fully clothed.
On her last day, Arthur takes her into town to show her some of his favorite
places. She's much more stern with the Radigan boys than anybody else ever is;
Arthur's pretty sure he's never seen them behave so well. He hopes Ariadne will
only use those powers for good once she's an architect.
Walking back to Arthur's car, Ariadne spots the drugstore and drags Arthur in
by his wrist, leading him down each aisle until she's found exactly what she's
looking for: condoms and lubricant. Arthur quickly picks a few boxes to preempt
her looming discussion and glares at her smug smile.
She leaves two days before Eames is set to come back, sun starting to rise in
the east as Arthur hugs her in the garage. His arms are tight around her tiny
shoulders, hands clasped over his elbows. Now that he's had her around, pushy
though she may have been, he isn't quite ready to let her go again.
He pulls away, just enough to hold her at arm's length, and there's a knowing
glint in her eye. Carefully, she pries his hands off her shoulders and holds
them in her own.
"Just be yourself," she reminds him, like it's the answer to everything, and
kisses him on the cheek. "And have fun."
Arthur watches her pull out, and follows behind in his own car. But at the end
of the driveway, she turns left and Arthur turns right. Seconds later, she's
barely a glint of dark blue in his rear view mirror, and then he's left alone
with his thoughts.
***** Chapter 5 *****
Not only does Ariadne's visit help bolster Arthur's spirits, she also doesn't
leave without giving him advice on how to deal with Eames. Most of it isn't
anything Arthur thinks he could use, but two ideas stick with him: "show some
skin" and "make Eames jealous." Of course, Arthur is skeptical, especially
about the second one.
"I'm not about to use people, Ari," Arthur says, giving her a reproachful look.
"How do you think I finally got Yusuf to make the first move?" she asks, not
bothering to look ashamed.
Arthur blinked.
"You, stupid! My head in your lap on the quad during lunch? Leaning over to
whisper in your ear all the time. Little touches that meant nothing to you, but
looked like something to him. Do you feel used at all?"
"I do now!"
Eventually, Arthur decided to leave that as a last resort. Especially since
Eames hardly ever sees him with anybody else anyway.
The skin thing, however, he can do. Especially with the extreme July heat
rolling in.
Due to a lack of rain and the oppressive heat, work slows considerably, leaving
him time to do the work on Eames' yard he's been promising himself he'd do from
day one. He makes an arrangement with his boss to borrow some equipment, lines
up a delivery for the day after Eames returns, and gets to work.
The first day is all about clean-up and preparing. It isn't the best time to be
planting new things, but the thick shade helps and Arthur makes sure to do as
much as he can to give them the best start. That means removing dead stumps,
cutting back invasive undergrowth, and doing some heavy duty tilling.
He stops about every half hour to get a drink from the hose, hoping he looks
more relaxed than he feels as he gets water all over himself. Out of the corner
of his eye, Arthur can see Eames watching him through the kitchen window,
chewing thoughtfully. Arthur turns his back on him then and shifts his hips a
little. The movement jostles his work shorts enough for them to slip down. Not
a lot, but enough to reveal the waistband of his boxers and maybe a sliver of
the red material, too.
Then, after he takes one last drink, he makes sure to douse his chest. He skims
a hand over his stomach and up, rubbing the skin between his nipples. His back
is still to the house, so Eames can't see, but Arthur is sure Eames has enough
imagination to realize where Arthur's hand is in relation to the elbow he can
see. He feels silly, tweaking his own nipples like this, but keeping his goal
in mind helps. A little.
Slicking a wet hand through his hair, Arthur drops the hose and turns to his
other side. He looks up smiling, expecting to still see Eames in the window. He
isn't there. Arthur's smile widens.
Later, Arthur isn't surprised to find Eames in his office. There isn't any work
that needs doing in the garden outside that particular window, and Arthur
figures Eames assumes it's the safest spot to get some work done. Arthur, of
course, is a step ahead of him.
He's left all the equipment on the trailer in the driveway and only fetches
what he needs and nothing more. Doing it this way takes Arthur twice as long to
get any work done, but it also means he walks in front of the window twice as
often. It's a fair trade-off.
Arthur works like that through the morning, relishing the burn in his muscles
and the sweat rolling down his spine. He might be doing this mostly to drive
Eames crazy, but Arthur also enjoys the feeling of a job well done, of being
useful, and there's nothing that can ruin that.
Not even Eames pointing out to Arthur that he never asked for the work to be
done in the first place.
"I know you didn't," Arthur says after taking a long gulp of Iced Tea. "I want
to do it. My way of saying 'thank you' for taking me in this summer."
Eames studies him, a long, lingering look that slides from Arthur's head all
the way down to his toes, then back up. "Did it occur to you I might like my
garden just the way it is?"
Arthur shrugs, takes another sip of his tea. "Not really." He tries to maintain
a straight face under Eames' weighted stare, but it's a close thing. And he's
pretty sure he isn't imagining the ghost of a smile curving Eames' lips when he
walks away.
The afternoon consists of hauling things: soil amendments, plants, and debris.
This means more walking in front of the office windows, but on the few
occasions he does glance up, Eames isn't there. Nor is he in the kitchen
windows. And though Arthur would like nothing more than to make a loop around
the front and see if he can find Eames, it would seem too suspicious, and he
feels obvious enough as it is.
Arthur works until the sun starts to set and the mosquitoes come out for their
dinner. He feels grimy and gross, dirt and dust embedded in every crease of his
skin. In the driveway, he rolls up on his toes and stretches his arms over his
head, wallowing in the pull of his tendons and ache in his muscles. He thinks
about the shower he's minutes away from, but something itches at the back of
his mind, like there's an opportunity he is going to miss.
He rounds the end of the house, crossing and uncrossing his arms around his
chest, and the lake glints pink-gold in front of him; Arthur's idea sharpens
around the edges. His hands fall to his shorts, thumbs hooking in the
waistband, and push them further down with each step. He kicks them off at the
edge of Eames' lawn and runs for the lake, diving in head-first in one smooth
glide.
Skinny dipping isn't something he's ever done before and even though the water
is cold, it feels glorious to be wrapped up in it, feeling both exposed and
hidden at the same time. He floats on his back, too tired to do laps, and
watches the no-see-ums flit around just out of reach, dark pin-pricks in the
softening light.
Eventually, his eyes slip closed and he laces his fingers together on his
stomach. After long, languid moments with only the wet slap of water
interrupting his peace, Arthur's stomach starts to grumble, and he slips under
the water one last time, propelling himself toward the wall with a lazy kick of
his legs. He is still a generous distance away from the sea wall as he surfaces
and wipes the water from his eyes, but he could spot Eames' body from any
distance; Arthur grins.
Eames slows to a stop just a few feet from where Arthur thinks he left his
shorts and boxers. He is dressed for a run, basketball shorts hanging low, the
ever-present t-shirt hanging from his waistband. His hands fall to his hips and
his head drops, looking to all the world like he's trying to catch his breath.
But Arthur sees the slight slant of his neck, Eames' gaze on the grass, and
then he turns to scan the water.
He waves; Eames doesn't wave back.
Arthur feels a renewed strength surge through him, enough to close the distance
between him and the wall in short minutes. Pulling himself up the ladder is a
little more difficult, but he focuses on Eames watching him, revealing more and
more of his body with every rung he climbs. Arthur is sure if he hadn't been in
freezing cold water only moments before, his cock would be half hard just from
the adrenaline flooding through him, making his heart pound too hard in his
chest. Instead, a strengthening night breeze is making Arthur fight against the
instinct to cover himself.
Once on land, Eames gives Arthur one long look, pausing for a few extra seconds
on Arthur's groin, then fixes resolutely on his face. Arthur doesn't linger;
his teeth are starting to chatter and the mosquitoes seem to find him
particularly delicious. Without saying a word, he wraps a hand around Eames'
wrist and leans down to get his shorts. Eames doesn't move. Arthur can feel the
thud of his pulse under his fingers and squeezes once before heading inside.
Later, after dinner, Eames stops Arthur from going upstairs with a hand on his
shoulder.
"I know what you're trying to do," he says, voice low and eyes dark.
Arthur keeps his face blank and his eyes wide, palms open and facing Eames.
"What do you mean?"
Eames stares at him for several heartbeats, fingers digging hard into Arthur's
collarbone. Arthur is pretty sure Eames is trying to make him sweat, collapse
under the guilt. The problem with that is, Arthur doesn't feel guilty. At all.
He isn't going to strut around naked until Eames finally gives in, but he isn't
going to lock himself up in his tower, either. If Eames wants to live like a
monk, Arthur tells himself, that's Eames' problem.
Arthur looks Eames straight in the eye, waiting. His lips twitch, wanting to
curve into a smile and Eames' gaze drops to them. It's just a flicker of his
eyelashes, but it's enough.
"Good night, Eames," Arthur says, gently prying Eames' hand from his shoulder.
Eames is gone by the time Arthur reaches the top of the stairs.
                                     : : :
A new installation comes in, stalling Arthur's plan for the next few days.
They're working around the clock to get it done before a tropical storm crawls
up the coast, forcing everybody inside until the storms die down.
Arthur decides to set aside his 'show some skin' plan and instead uses the time
to re-establish the relationship he had with Eames from the get-go; the one
where they could talk about anything and everything, poking and prodding at
each other in new and inventive ways.
Eames seems wary at first, staring at Arthur with a keen eye, keeping the
length of the kitchen between them, but Arthur walks around half-dressed only
as often as Eames does, and doesn't try to approach Eames if it looks like he
doesn't want to be. So, by the end of the week, he is nearly back to his old
self. Including, occasionally, spearing his fingers through Arthur's hair if he
walks by Arthur sitting at the kitchen table.
(The first time it happens, they both stiffen, Eames' fingernails scratching
light at the crown when his hand starts to curl into a fist. Arthur relaxes
first, not saying a word. Eventually, Eames' hand follows through and he walks
away as though nothing happened.
After that, the awkwardness settles.)
Once the rain has mostly moved on, Arthur is called back to work. It's an all
hands on deck situation: the nursery is in a small state of chaos and their
clients are calling, one after another, to hire them for fallen branch and tree
clean-up. It's still windy, though. Too much for Arthur to try and keep his
tiny car on the road. Eames volunteers to drive him in and decides, after, to
stick around the grocery store and help Harry sort through any spoiled stock.
Eames is waiting for Arthur at the nursery at the end of the day. Arthur seems
him talking to Jason, the nursery's owner, as he pulls into the parking lot. He
only gives Arthur and the truck his in a brief look, not once interrupting his
conversation with Jason. Beside Arthur in the truck, Dylan is singing along
(badly) to "Livin' on a Prayer."
Later, Arthur will decide if it hadn't been Dylan in the truck, the person
Arthur feels most comfortable with at the nursery, Ariadne's voice wouldn't
have popped into his head. But it does, and though his gut twists, Arthur is
reminded of her advice about trying to make Eames jealous, and this seems to be
the perfect opportunity.
Dylan makes it easy, too. He's not gay and Arthur doesn't think he'd be
interested in Dylan even if he was gay, but there's an easy rapport between
them, almost as easy as the one Arthur shares with Eames, so it doesn't seem
out of place for Arthur to give him a wide, flirty smile, tuck a lock of
Dylan's hair behind his ear. Let his hand linger a beat too long on Dylan's
back when they fold each other into one of those manly hug-slash-back slaps.
Dylan leaning in to whisper to Arthur about how good Layla's ass looks in her
shorts doesn't hurt, either.
Arthur can't be sure if Eames is watching him. He doesn't even want to look out
of the corner of his eye, afraid he'll be too obvious. But there's a tingle at
the base of his spine, the same thing he feels every time he manages to catch
Eames watching him.
Eames remains quiet all through the drive home, even going so far as to keep
the radio volume low, which Arthur is okay with because even with the heavier
car and the winds finally starting to die down, it's nearly dark and Arthur
wants all of Eames' concentration on the road.
His silence breaks once they reach the house, Eames heading straight for the
kitchen, expecting Arthur to follow suit.
"How come you never have any of your friends over?" he asks, getting them each
a beer from the refrigerator. He looks almost uninterested, leaning one hip
against the counter, arms crossed over his chest.
"Ariadne was here just the other week."
"And she was very lovely, but what about the friends you've made at work?"
"How do you know I've made any friends at work." Arthur doesn't quite look him
in the eye, choosing instead to take a long pull from his beer.
Eames arches his brows. "Other than you talking about them? I can see with my
own two eyes, Arthur."
"Are you spying on me?" It sounds silly, even to his own ears, but there's no
taking it back. Arthur can only hope to hide his wince.
"Yes, Arthur, I follow your crew truck around in my ridiculously inconspicuous
convertible." Arthur doesn't look at Eames to see the face he's pulling. " I'm
talking about the young man you were with earlier."
"Oh, Dylan."
"He has a name! Brilliant!"
Arthur shrugs one shoulder and digs into the refrigerator for a beer. "He's
just a guy I work with, Eames. No big deal." Eames grabs the beer from Arthur
with the bottle barely an inch from his mouth.
"You should invite him over for dinner, let me meet him." He winks at Arthur as
he takes a sip.
"Why on Earth would I do that?"
Eames hands the bottle back and slings an arm around Arthur's shoulder to lead
him out to the deck. "I know it's hard to believe, but I was a young man once,
too. Is it so wrong of me to want to help you out?"
"No," Arthur drawls, skeptical. It feels too easy, Eames giving him this
blatant opportunity. "Let me think about it?" he says, turning to head for the
stairs and a shower, handing Eames the bottle of beer on his way.
After dinner, while they're playing Call of Duty, Arthur reintroduces the
subject. "How about if I invite more people than Dylan over for dinner?"
Eames pauses the game and turns to Arthur, a sly smile tugging at his full
lips. "Arthur," he purrs, suggestive. "I know you're not that shy."
"Who said anything about being shy?"
"Can't have the first dinner at home a romantic one-on-one thing, yeah?"
Arthur ducks his head to hide his smile, but he feels his ears pinking.
"Something like that."
"Safety in numbers, then. We can grill out. This Saturday. Invite anybody you
want. It's been awhile since I flirted with a girl. I hope I'm not getting
rusty." Eames winces at a missed shot on screen, then adds, "Oh, and have
everybody bring a swimsuit. There will be no shenanigans on my watch."
                                     : : :
The day of the barbecue dawns hot and humid, perfect for spending most of the
day in the water. And even though the weather is almost oppressive, making the
floor inside the house sticky despite the air conditioner running, Eames is in
a cheerful mood, which puts Arthur in a good mood.
In all, a dozen of his coworkers show up, a healthy mix of both boys and girls.
Eames, as usual, is utterly shameless with the girls, walking around in a faded
pair of cargo shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt. Though the girls eat it up,
Arthur chastises him a few times for his posturing, but not too much; he's
enjoying the show for himself, too.
Once Arthur and his friends get into the water, however, Eames is all but
forgotten amongst the laughing and screaming and the boys trying to dunk the
girls.
At one point, Dylan paddles past Arthur, his trunks grazing Arthur's fist, and
it give him an idea. Gripping the material, Arthur slips under the water and
tugs hard, pulling them off in one quick movement before Dylan becomes aware of
what's going on. From there, it's a simple childish game of keep away, which
everybody is more than happy to participate in.
After a handful of minutes, Dylan decides to give up and swims well away from
the group and they all let him. He seems happy to float on his own, Arthur
glancing over every so often to keep an eye on him.
As the sun starts to set, Eames appears on the edge of the sea wall to let
everybody know dinner is ready. Dylan's shorts are at his feet and Eames flings
them into the water for Dylan to put on before he gets out.
Arthur is the last one out, just behind Dylan, who is singing the praises of
skinny dipping and suggesting they all try it once it's dark. Arthur, feeling
bold and relaxed, slings an arm around Dylan to draw him close enough to knock
their heads together and says, "Good plan. Nobody will be able to see me biting
it, then."
They eat dinner around a bonfire Eames builds in the middle of the yard, away
from the trees and shrubs. The heat it gives off isn't necessary, but the smoke
keeps the bugs away, so they sweat it out, Dylan settled on the ground next to
Arthur, Eames nestled between Jackie and Layla on a bench.
Now that he has a few beers in him, Eames is an obnoxious flirt, going so far
as to thicken his accent. Their smiles seem permanent and they can't take their
eyes off him, but Arthur's okay with it. He can tell the difference between
Eames wanting to get in their pants and Eames making them think he wants to get
in their pants.
And, every once in awhile, Eames glances over the fire at Arthur and smiles,
flames dancing in his eyes. Arthur grins in return, dimples cutting deep into
his cheeks, then turns back to the story Dylan is telling and laughs in all the
appropriate places.
As the night wears on, Arthur feels himself relax into Dylan's body, the fire
and beer making him feel cozy and a little handsy. Dylan, for his part, rolls
with it. It makes Arthur wonder so much, he eventually whispers to him, lips
grazing the shell of his ear, "Are you sure you're not gay."
Dylan chuckles, low, and tightens the arm around Arthur's waist. "Only for you,
Arthur. Only for you." In that moment, Dylan feels a little like the brother
Arthur never had. Especially when he kisses Arthur's cheek, wet and messy,
adding a loud smacking sound at the end. In that same moment, Arthur finds
Eames in one of the chairs on the deck, face barely lit by the fire from below.
His face is inscrutable, eyes black and half-closed. He looks to all the world
like he's drifting off to sleep, but Arthur knows better. And that knowledge
shoots straight to his cock.
For as comfortable as Dylan may be with Arthur draped all over him, Arthur's
pretty sure he wouldn’t be as okay if he saw the growing tent in
Arthur's pants. Luckily, the sky over the lake is inky black and Arthur is in
sudden need of a cold shower. Or dunk, as it were.
He drags Dylan up by his hand, Katie too from the other side of him, then takes
off for the lake, kicking his trunks of as he goes. The lake does the trick,
cutting off an erection before it can really get started, and he swiftly swims
away from the wall, before he can get crushed or drowned.
They don't stay in the water long; it's late and Eames is keeping a sharp eye
on them, considering they all have alcohol in them. The heat from the fire
warms them up and dries them off once they're out, and Eames insists they all
spend the night, just in case. "Girls in my room, boys in Arthur's room," he
teases with a wink.
In the morning, Eames is up before all of them, coffee pot at the ready. Arthur
stumbles down last, right behind Dylan and clinging weakly to the hem of his t-
shirt. With his blurred eyes, it's the only way he can safely navigate his way
to the kitchen without breaking his neck. Of course, there is only one spot
left at the table, and since he is a gentleman and, for all intents and
purposes, not a guest in Eames' home, Arthur lets Dylan have the chair and ends
up leaning against the counter next to Eames, mug in hand, quite by accident.
"Thanks for this," he says after several healthy gulps of coffee, nudging Eames
in the shoulder with his own. Eames is little more than a blur in the sunlight,
but Arthur can see the dark line of his glasses around his eyes, proof that
Eames isn't really much better off than the rest of them.
Eames hums in reply and says, "Looks like it worked, yeah?" He nods at Dylan,
who glances at Arthur at that exact moment, smiling.
Arthur smiles back, but his heart isn't exactly in it. "We'll see."
                                     : : :
Three days later, Arthur is at a stand still.
Eames hasn't made a move. At all. Not even the constant low level of flirtation
he usually maintains with Arthur. It's frustrating and tiring and it's all
Arthur can do to keep himself from emailing Ariadne, telling her he's tried and
failed and it's time for her to get the couch ready for him.
He gets home on Friday sore and antsy and grateful to be done with working ten
days straight. The shower manages to loosen up most of his knots, but there's
still a slight buzz to his skin, like he's hooked up to a low level current.
Eames isn't anywhere in the house when Arthur comes down, but his car is in the
garage, which means he's either in the vegetable garden or out for a run.
Arthur is slightly disappointed to find the garden empty, and decides to lose
himself in making a salad for dinner with some of the leftover steak from the
night before. The repetition of chopping vegetables is soothing and seems to
settle his nerves.
His mind drifts as he eats, replaying his conversations with Ariadne over in
his head. It had seemed like good advice at the time, semi-logical if also
somewhat manipulative. But now, after three days of Eames' aloofness, Arthur is
starting to second guess himself.
He cleans up his mess by rote, not registering that he's on autopilot until
he's upstairs and flipping open his laptop. An idea is starting to coalesce,
faint, and he drums his fingers on his leg. The Google homepage stares back at
him, waiting, cursor blinking faithfully in the text box. Arthur types in "how"
and stops.
There is, he thinks, no way to ask Google for what he wants. Partially because
Arthur isn't even sure what it is he wants. Well, in a base way, he does; he
wants whatever it was he and Eames had before, that familiarity and ease and
chemistry that led to kissing and a fucking awesome blow job.
What he wants is to not be cast aside simply because of his age.
Before he can come up with something to search for, a Google chat window pops
up on Arthur's screen.
Yusuf:: fancy meeting you here
Arthur:: What's up?
Yusuf:: hiding from ariadne. she wants to go waterskiing again.
Arthur:: Sounds like fun.
Yusuf:: my forearms don't agree.
how're you doing? haven't heard from you since ariadne came back.
you get in eames' pants yet?
Arthur:: She wasn't supposed to tell you about that!
Yusuf:: she tells me everything, Arthur
i take it that means it's not going well.
Arthur:: No, it's not.
Yusuf:: and i suppose you're ready to give up
ready for our couch?
Arthur's hands are poised to type 'yes,' fingers twitching for the keys, but
Yusuf barrels on like he already knows the answer.
Yusuf:: i'm not going to let you.
Arthur:: What?
Yusuf:: you can't stay here.
Arthur:: That's kind of cruel, don't you think?
Yusuf:: it's for your own good
Arthur:: And you're the one to tell me what's good for me?
Yusuf:: if ariadne can do it, i can do it
Arthur:: Ari's known me since she was four. There's a bit of a difference.
Yusuf:: details. i'm tired of Arthur the monk. it's unnatural.
Arthur:: I am, too. Really. But he's not responding to anything and...
Yusuf:: and what?
Arthur:: I don't know what I'm doing, okay?
It's not like I can just walk into his room, straddle his lap, and order him to
fuck me.
Yusuf:: why not?
Arthur:: Because
Arthur's fingers falter over the keys as he tries to come up with an excuse.
Again, Yusuf answers before he can come up with one.
Yusuf:: because isn't an answer
i thought you said this guy had an age issue?
Arthur:: He does
Yusuf:: and let me guess, ariadne told you to make him jealous, to show as much
skin as possible and basically frustrate the hell out of him until he gives in?
Arthur pauses, but his answer, obviously, is yes.
Yusuf:: arthur, ariadne is an 18 yo girl. eames is a 30-something man
is it at all possible that your playing games is only making things worse?
Arthur's head falls back on a sigh. It makes sense in an obvious way; Eames
seems like the type of guy who wouldn't have played games even as a teenager,
either. Other than Arthur, he's the type of guy who would go after whatever it
is he wanted and take it, whether it was for the taking or not.
Movement flickers in the corner of his eye and he turns his head to look out
the window. Eames is there, slowing to a stop on the sea wall. His back is bare
and heaving, and with it brings a white-hot flash of clarity.
Arthur slams his laptop shut and jogs down the stairs, heading straight for
Eames' room. His arms and legs are buzzing, all nervous energy mixed with
anticipation and giddy relief. The decor of the room doesn't even register
around the thoughts whizzing through his head; mostly of how stupid he's been,
less about what he'll do if this doesn't work, how he'll definitely have to
stay with Ariadne and Yusuf for the rest of the summer if it doesn't.
He's only been sitting on the bed for a few minutes before Eames walks in,
sweaty and still gasping for air. A water bottle dangles from his fingertips,
the other holds a t-shirt Eames uses to mop his face. He stops a handful of
steps into the room, once he sees Arthur, and stills. The hand with the shirt
lowers to his side.
"What are you doing in here?" Eames asks, cautious.
Arthur leans back, propping himself up on his hands, attempting a nonchalance
he doesn't feel. "Waiting."
"For?"
Arthur looks him up and down once, slow. On the way back up, he allows himself
to follow a drop of sweat that works its way along Eames' stomach, skirting
around his navel, to end up soaking into the shorts. There's a moment where he
aches to trace the same path with his tongue, but he drags his gaze up instead
and locks eyes with Eames for a beat before he says, "You."
Eames takes a step forward, pauses, then heads for the bathroom instead, giving
the bed a wide berth. "Arthur, I told you--"
"You told me nothing, actually," Arthur butts in, before Eames can gather a
head of steam. "Don't think I didn't notice." Arthur hears Eames turn the
shower on then off again, and gets up, stands in the doorway with a hand firmly
planted on either side of the door frame. Eames gives him a dark look that
makes Arthur's gut flip, but he doesn't move. "You danced around anything you
wanted to say and let me jump to my own conclusions."
"We're not doing this, Arthur," Eames growls, forcing his way through Arthur's
arm.
"Yes, we are."
"Just because you say so, yeah?" Eames says it over his shoulder, attention
instead on the bureau drawer and his clean clothes.
"No," Arthur says, standing a few feet end of the bed. "Because you say so. You
can tell me you can't until you're blue in the face; blame it on my age or your
age or the full moon or because sodomy is illegal. But none of that means you
don't want to."
Eames hand stops with a clean t-shirt clenched in his fist and looks over his
shoulder at Arthur. Voice quiet, he says, "What if I told you I don't want to?"
"I wouldn't believe you." Arthur hopes he only imagined the waver in his voice.
Eames approaches Arthur then, finally. He radiates heat and smells like the
sun. Arthur wants to tuck his nose in the hollow of Eames' throat and breathe
it in forever. This close, Arthur's fingers itch to touch. He lick his lips;
Eames tracks the movement.
"Just like that?" Eames says, voice gone dry.
Arthur swallows. "Just like that."
They stand there for long moments, only the space of a breath between them,
Eames watching Arthur with eyes gone dark, hooded. The sun is setting, turning
everything a deep gold and deepening the shadows. In this light, Eames' lips,
slightly parted, are an obscene pink, lush and damp, parted enough for Arthur
to see the edge of Eames' crooked tooth.
Arthur's hand lifts on its own, fingers threading through the wet hair at
Eames' nape, and pulls him in for a kiss; it is as chaste as their first,
merely a soft press of lips. Eames is stiff against Arthur's body, hands
clenched tight at his sides as Arthur pulls away. There is a second, a brief
flutter of panic in Arthur's chest that this, too, will fail. Eames, with his
eyes closed, hardly seems to be breathing, but then there is a loud inhale and
Eames' hands land on Arthur's waist to reel him in.
Eames wraps himself around Arthur and kisses him, mouth wide and wet and warm.
He kisses Arthur like he's angry, like he's got something to prove, all teeth
and tongue. Like if he overwhelms Arthur enough, Arthur will realize he is in
over his head and give up.
Arthur is overwhelmed, but not the way Eames probably means for him to be.
Being surrounded by Eames, like this, smelling the salt-sweat scent of him, his
skin slick and smooth, is almost too much. Arthur wants to focus on every
little detail, but it's too much and absolutely perfect.
After a subtle shift of his legs, Arthur feels Eames' knee between his thighs,
thick and insistent, pressing against his hardening cock. Arthur's gasp gets
lost in Eames mouth as he nudges Arthur back toward the bed.
Eames keeps trying to pull back, trying to get air, but Arthur follows, eager.
Something in Arthur's chest tightens each time Eames does it, fear that Eames
is changing his mind, but then Arthur's mouth lands on Eames' neck, his
collarbone, and that panic is quickly forgotten in favor of the skin under his
lips, the curl of tattoo he's been wanting to trace since the very first day.
Arthur works his way up Eames' neck, dragging his teeth through the day's
growth of stubble there. He likes the rasp of it in his ears, decides he wants
to know the difference in the sound of it scratching against his cheek. Eames
tries to pull back, hissing, but Arthur tightens his fingers in Eames' hair,
pulls him closer until they're pressed together from groin to chest to cheek.
"Beard burn," Eames warns, voice rough. His thigh keeps grinding into Arthur's
groin, making Arthur's vision blur.
"Fuck yes," Arthur replies, nipping at the hinge of Eames' jaw.
"You better be goddamn sure," Eames growls, a little choked, a lot desperate.
His hands flatten against Arthur's body to slip under the back of his shirt,
betraying his good intentions.
"I am, fuck, fuck," Arthur says, almost a sob, and rubs his entire body along
Eames'. He barely has the words out before Eames is peeling Arthur's t-shirt
off and tossing it over his shoulder.
Between one shuddery breath and the next, Arthur is on the bed, on his back,
Eames looming large in the space between Arthur's knees. Arthur props himself
up on his elbows, watching Eames study him, and he hooks a foot around Eames'
knee to keep him close. Not that it would do any good, Arthur understands in a
vague sort of way, but his skin is tingling and his lips are numb and Arthur is
pretty sure his limbs are operating under their own volition at this point.
Eames' shorts slip a little as he knee walks his way onto the bed, nylon
pulling tight with the spread of his thighs. Arthur's gaze flicks between the
sharp grooves of Eames' hips and the thick erection straining at the seam. He
also takes in the line of hair under Eames' belly button, and Arthur's memory
flashes back to that night, to how rough that hair was against the back of his
knuckles. He reaches for it again, fingers dipping into the waistband of Eames'
shorts, only to be stopped by a tight band of fingers around his wrist. Eames
collects the other hand, then pins them both to the bed above Arthur's head
with one hand and whispers into Arthur's mouth, "Not yet," right before he
kisses him again.
Eames, admittedly, is a fantastic kisser, exploring every inch of Arthur's
mouth with his tongue, kissing and kissing Arthur like Eames will never get
enough. But now that Arthur has Eames here, pinning Arthur to the bed with his
weight, Arthur can't stay force himself to stay still and let Eames take. He
starts to roll his hips in the same rough rhythm as Eames' tongue. Eames shifts
with the movement and ends up settling between Arthur's thighs. Arthur gasps at
the new position, the weight of Eames' cock against his own; it's not enough,
not even close. But then Eames grinds down into it and Arthur whimpers, precome
slicking the inside of his boxers.
Eames pulls his head up, lips brushing Arthur's, and says, "Keep them there,
yeah?" Dazed, Arthur nods, not knowing what Eames is talking about and not
caring very much that he doesn't, but then Eames squeezes Arthur's wrists and
lets go so that he can lean on one elbow and palm Arthur's hip with his free
hand.
He moves on from kissing Arthur to explore his jaw and neck, the sharp jut of
his collarbone. At the same time, his palm smooths up and down Arthur's side,
tickling over Arthur's ribs, thumb grazing the nipple. The higher his hand
gets, the higher Arthur's hips lift, off the bed and into Eames' heat, over and
over and over again. Arthur's hands, though, never stray, fisted in the pillows
he can barely reach. Each sweep of Eames' hand sets Arthur's skin on fire,
blood simmering in his veins. Through the lust haze, Arthur barely registers
the words coming out of his mouth. The pleading -- "Eames, c'mon. Please just
fuck me" -- would turn Arthur's cheeks fire engine red if they weren't already
flushed from Eames' stubble and lavish attention.
Dimly, Arthur feels Eames shushing him, rushed exhalations in between warm,
sucking kisses to Arthur's throat and chest. His Adam's apple, too. Eames' free
hand is at Arthur's shoulder before it trails down, fingernails catching on
Arthur's nipple, to search for the button of Arthur's shorts. He flicks it open
with no problem, but the zipper is more challenging one-handed, and Eames
curses, bites the ball of Arthur's shoulder.
Arthur's laugh is a little thready, a lot desperate. He wiggles his hips,
squirming out from under Eames' bulk in an attempt to slip the shorts over his
slim hips through sheer will and friction, careful to keep his hands where
Eames left them. Giddy, he looks down at the space between them and is relieved
to see the head of his cock poking out from the waistband of his boxers, framed
by the vee of his shorts. A bead of precome shines at the slit, thick and
clear.
"Brilliant," Eames rumbles into the crook of Arthur's neck. Something like
pride swells behind Arthur's ribs and he turns his head to claim Eames' mouth,
pelvis thrusting into Eames' palm in a not-so-subtle gesture.
"Fuck me," Arthur says again, punctuating the request with a sharp nip to
Eames' lower lip.
Eames' laugh is startled out of him, low and dark and raspy right next to
Arthur's ear. He slips his palm into Arthur's shorts, fingers scratching
through the hair there before they wrap around Arthur's cock. The grip is lose,
but Eames' hand is warm and sure, and he teases at Arthur's slit with his
thumb, swiping the pad of it through the precome in tight circles. It's not
what Arthur wants, not by half, but Eames is a heavy weight at Arthur's side,
warm and huge, and even if Arthur could get a solid grip on all that sweat-
slick skin, he wouldn't move Eames for anything.
The rhythm Eames tries to set is too slow for Arthur, for the blood thudding in
his veins, his cock. His legs are restless, his hips even more so, and he
thrusts into the circle of Eames' thick fingers over and over again.
It's strange how the combination of Eames' stubbornness, Arthur's enthusiasm,
and the lack of room Arthur's shorts provide turns the hand job clumsy, but no
less effective.
"Eames," Arthur groans, head turning away from Eames as he sucks a kiss into
the thin skin under Arthur's ear. "Please, please."
"So eager for me," Eames rasps, rewarding Arthur with an unplanned twist of the
wrist. The surprise of it makes Arthur gasp Eames' name.
"I'm gonna come, I'm gonna--" Arthur says, turning his face toward Eames.
Arthur's eyes are closed and their noses bump together, but it doesn't matter.
Eames is there, pinning Arthur's arm down, and his mouth is wet and hot, open
against Arthur's.
Arthur comes with a shout, pillow clenched tight in his hands, back bowing off
the bed. Dimly, he registers the sticky splatter of come on his stomach, Eames'
sweaty forehead pressed to his temple, the fine trembling in his arms and legs.
Arthur take a few moments to blink the sweat from his eyes, his own mixed with
Eames', he's sure, and open his fists. His breathing calms in stages.
Next to him, Eames is barely more than a shadow, teeth glinting dim in the low
light. The smile Arthur gives him in return feels too wide, too dopey, but it
doesn't last long. He feels the hot, hard ridge of Eames' cock against his
thigh, the nylon shorts damp with sweat and precome, and Arthur scowls up at
Eames. "I wanted you to fuck me," he says, sounding more petulant than he
intended.
Eames chuckles and leans in for a kiss. The gentle suction on Arthur's tongue
sets all his nerves on fire and his cock gives a valiant twitch. "And I'm
intend to give you exactly what you want," Eames promises, kissing his way down
Arthur's chest and stomach, his spent cock. Eames' fingers curl into the
waistband of Arthur's shorts and he pulls them down as he backs his way off the
bed, kissing and nipping Arthur's thighs, his knee, the knob of his ankle. The
scratch of his stubble over the sensitive skin makes Arthur gasp and writhe.
With hooded eyes, Arthur watches Eames head for the nightstand, shorts hanging
low on his hips. The waistband clings to the swell of Eames' ass, teasing, and
Arthur's gaze darts between that and the dimples in Eames' back. He's so busy
imagining what he'll do with them, later -- whether he'll use his teeth or
tongue first, or maybe fit the pads of his fingers in them -- Arthur doesn't
notice Eames rooting around in the drawer until something lands on the bed near
his hip. Arthur flails a shaky hand in the general direction until it lands on
it: lube and a condom. He grins, wide.
Almost too late, Arthur catches movement out of the corner of his eye, and his
focus shifts from what's in Eames' hand to Eames slipping out of his shorts.
Even in the low light, he looks magnificent, all thick muscles and slim hips,
tattooed skin lightly dusted with hair. His cock glistens with precome all
along its length and the shiny, pink crown peeks out from the darker foreskin.
Arthur doesn't realize he's reaching out until his knuckles hit Eames' thigh,
following the crease of it to grip tight to a sweaty hip. He pulls, weak, nails
digging into the skin; grunts when Eames doesn't follow right away. Arthur's
focus shifts, then, from Eames' cock to his face, his dark eyes and the intent
in them. The weight of it pins Arthur to the bed and Arthur desperately fights
the urge to fidget.
Careful, Eames climbs back onto the bed and slots himself in between Arthur's
legs again, lining them up from toes to chest, skin to skin. Propped up on his
forearms, he's got Arthur caged in, and Arthur grins, sighs. Arthur spares a
moment to think that Eames' solid bulk between his thighs probably shouldn't be
this much of a turn on, but it is and Arthur is loathe to care. Not with Eames
kissing him softly, like it's what he was born to do.
Belatedly, Arthur realizes he still has one arm stretched above his head and he
puts it to work, exploring Eames' chest and back with flat palms. Mapping the
muscles he's watched a hundred times before makes his breath catch. Eames
preens under the attention, shifting his weight from forearm to forearm, so
Arthur can feel the shift and flex of them under his fingers. Arthur grins into
Eames' kiss, murmurs, "Showoff," into Eames' mouth.
Eames' cock is an insistent pressure against Arthur's stomach, hard and slick
and hot on his skin. He skates one hand down Eames' back and over his hip, is
about to slip it between them when Eames catches it by the forearm. "You do
that," he rumbles, "And you'll have to wait even longer." He nips along
Arthur's lower lip to punctuate his point.
"Fucking do it, then," Arthur hisses, brazen, grinding into Eames' hips.
Eames' groan is a hoarse, wrecked sound. He bites at Arthur's chin, hard, and
shifts his weight to one elbow, holding the bottle of lube in the same hand.
The other reaches up, awkward, and Arthur watches him pour a liberal amount
over two of his fingers, ignoring the stray drops that land on his shoulder.
The snap of the cap sounds loud in his ear, ominous where everything else
hasn't. He gulps a breath, then another. Eames is watching him carefully, eyes
following the bob of Arthur's Adam's apple.
"You are allowed to change your mind," he says. Arthur is surprised to see the
chink in Eames' armor, the hint of anxiety in his tone.
He shakes his head, hands holding firm to Eames' broad shoulders. "Just-- go
slow?"
Eames kisses him, soft and easy. "Absolutely."
He trails the backs of his fingers down Arthur's body, nails following the
crease of his hip. Arthur is used to the feeling of probing wet fingers behind
his balls, though his own are much slimmer than Eames', and less sure, less
warm underneath the slick liquid. Less teasing, too; Arthur has never bothered
to massage his perineum or circle gently around his rim. Too busy to get down
to business, he guesses. Too anxious to see what all the fuss over penetration
is about.
Arthur gets it now, though. The thick press of Eames' finger is both foreign
and thrilling, and though his body resists on instinct, Arthur's energy is
returning and he's eager for more. The wanton shift of his legs gives Eames
more room to maneuver, and he does, sliding down Arthur's body to mouth at the
sharp spur of his hip. At the same time, his finger is insistent, pushing
against Arthur's resistance in small, easy thrusts. When Eames' mouth lands on
a particularly sensitive spot at Arthur's groin, Arthur groans and melts into
the bed, fight gone out of him. Eames' finger slides in, then, thick and warm.
Arthur can feel the curve of Eames' pleased smile against his skin, and Arthur
groans, his hips restless.
Eames uses lazy strokes to work Arthur open, distracts him from the stretch of
a second finger by making his way back up Arthur's body and sucking hard on a
nipple. The sharp edge of Eames' teeth has Arthur arching off the bed, one hand
tangled in the sheets, the other in Eames' hair. Arthur doesn't realize he's
shoved himself onto Eames' fingers until after, Eames watching for a reaction
through the thick fan of his lashes. His grin glints at Arthur, but the cocky
twist of his lips is too much and Arthur pulls him up by the short hairs at his
nape, nips at Eames' lower lip before kissing him breathless.
Arthur circles his hips once, then again, in an effort to get Eames moving.
Eames does, chuckling against the hinge of Arthur's jaw; murmurs, "So sodding
eager," into Arthur's ear. His rhythm is slow but his fingers are thick,
thicker when he crooks them.
Embarrassment flares in Arthur's cheeks and he bites his lip to keep in the
groans and whimpers, clings desperately to Eames and the sheets to keep still.
It only works for a little bit, until Eames' knuckles nudge his prostate, and
Arthur can't stop himself from shouting out a curse.
"That's it," Eames croons, mouth hot on Arthur's neck. "I want to hear you.
Every delicious little sound." Arthur's cock throbs at the thought of it,
smears sticky precome over his belly.
"Eames," Arthur pleads, palms skidding over Eames' sweat-slick skin. "Do I have
to beg?"
Eames' pleased hum resonates in Arthur's chest. "Maybe next time."
The idea of a next time makes heat prickle down Arthur's spine and settle heavy
at the base. The thought of Eames wanting to do this again almost enough to
distract him from the loss of Eames' fingers and the empty feeling they leave
behind.
Arthur must make a small sound of disappointment, because Eames curses, says,
"You're not going to let me live through this, are you?" His voice sounds like
he's been swallowing gravel.
The condom wrapper crinkles in Eames' hand, flashes silver as he raises it to
his lips and traps a corner with his teeth. Arthur laughs when it doesn't open
the first time, or even the second. "If you'd quit fucking moving 'round,"
Eames mutters around the foil.
"If your fingers weren't so slippery," Arthur retorts.
Eames shoots him a dark look, clasps the wrapper firmly between his teeth and
his fingers and growls, tearing it open in one swift motion. Hand trembling,
Arthur picks up the condom from where it landed on his chest and carefully
rolls it over Eames' cock, stroking light fingers over the hot, hard length.
Eames' breath shudders out of him and his head drops, forehead landing heavy on
Arthur's collarbone. Arthur gives the base a tight squeeze, thumbs at the seam
of Eames' balls; the skin there is soft and lightly furred, warm and tight.
Eames groans at the contact. "If you want me to fuck you, you can't be doing
that."
Arthur grins, unrepentant. Then, suddenly, Eames is rising up on his knees in
between Arthur's thighs, his cock an obscene curve from Eames' groin to his
stomach, his legs trembling under the strain. His hand curls around Arthur's
knee, pulls it up and hooks it around his waist. His other hand palms Arthur's
other thigh, pushes it up and out. The new position leaves all of Arthur
exposed, and he's sure he'd blush if all of his blood wasn't already busy
elsewhere. Despite that, Eames can't seem to get enough of the sight, doesn't
move until Arthur digs an insistent heel into his side and rolls his hips.
"Take a picture," Arthur jokes. "It'll last longer."
Eames' lips part on a gasp, pupils expanding until there's hardly any blue
left. Propping himself up on one flat palm planted next to Arthur's head, Eames
leans forward, his other hand resting in the crease of Arthur's thigh, thumb
tracing careless circles over the skin. "Do not make promises you can't keep,"
he warns, breath hot and damp on Arthur's face.
"Who says I can't?" Arthur replies with a small circling of his hips. The move
grinds their cock together and Eames gives a full body shudder, lowers himself
further in an impressive one-armed push-up to capture Arthur's mouth. He is
forceful where Arthur is light, giddy.
At least until he feels the head of Eames' cock bump against his hole and then
Arthur's pretty sure time stops. That's what it feels like, anyway; everything
narrowed down to that one point of contact, barely any contact at all really.
Arthur doesn't know if Eames is breathing, let alone saying anything. He
doesn't bother to notice the play of shadows over Eames' stomach, or the wet
tongue lapping at his nipple. All Arthur can focus on is the insistent press of
Eames' cock, thicker and hotter and slicker than his fingers were, and yet
Arthur's body seems to be rebelling.
Eames' head is bowed, so he doesn't notice the thin line of Arthur's mouth, his
eyes squeezed shut. Arthur fights so hard to swallow down the whimpers, he
doesn't realize he's trying to claw his way through the skin of Eames' shoulder
until Eames is batting at the hand, muttering, "Fucking hell, Arthur, what--?"
He looks up, then, eyes wide, says, "Right," and collapses on his arm, next to
Arthur.
Eames pulls Arthur onto his body, moving him like Arthur's nothing more than a
rag doll. "Up you get," Eames says, rearranging Arthur's legs so that they land
neatly on either side of Eames' hips. Confused, Arthur pushes himself up, palms
braced on Eames' chest, and Eames' gasps, moans as Arthur adjusts his weight.
The sight of Eames like this, all that smooth, inked skin and capable muscle
spread out underneath Arthur, is intoxicating. Arthur tries not to let on how
his head's spinning.
"Up, up," Eames says again, his warm, broad hands palming Arthur's bony hips.
That's when Arthur gets it, why Eames has reversed positions, and he rises a
little, one hand wrapped around Eames' thick wrist, the other reaching behind
him to grasp Eames' cock. It throbs in Arthur's hand, hot and slick. It takes a
few clumsy tries for Arthur to get it right and he groans once he does.
The pressure is still overwhelming, but this time Arthur's eyes stay open; he
breathes deep and focuses on Eames underneath him, matches their breaths and
grounds himself with the pounding of Eames' pulse under his fingertips. It's
crazy, but the warm weight of Eames between his thighs, the press of his thumbs
in the grooves of Arthur's hips, help Arthur to relax, and he laughs, a little
giddy, when Eames' cock makes it past the first ring of muscle. The surprise of
it has him rising up on his knees in shock, then just as quickly settling down
again, taking Eames farther inside of him.
"Take your time," Eames gasps, perhaps struggling almost as much as Arthur is,
but Arthur's had quite enough waiting. He rocks his hips back and forth, riding
Eames' cock in short, careful movements. Each time he sinks down, Eames gusts
out a breath, inches further into Arthur until, finally, they're pelvis to
pelvis.
Arthur stills to give himself time to get used to the feeling of being so full,
to the hot length of Eames' cock inside him. He makes small adjustments to the
tilt of his hips, spreads his legs a little wider, experimenting with the angle
as he stretches to accommodate Eames. Arthur doesn't notice the death grip
Eames has on his hips until he swears he hears the bones creak. Looking at
Eames face, he finds a manic grin, a violent tic in Eames' jaw.
"Problem?" asks Arthur, with a teasing tip of his head.
"I do have limits," Eames warns, breathing heavily. "Now, if you would kindly
move."
Laughing, Arthur does, following the direction Eames' hands take him. It's a
slow ride, up and down, Eames gritting his teeth the whole way, but every slide
down feels different, opens Arthur up that much more. And he keeps leaning
forward and back, hoping to help Eames' cock find the prostate again and make
sparks flare behind his eyelids.
He gasps when one of Eames' hands wraps around his cock; he hadn't even noticed
how it softened, but Eames' fingers are slick and warm, and now that Arthur's
used to being stuffed full, he focuses on fucking into the circle of Eames'
fingers instead of riding his cock.
It must not be enough for Eames, though, because he pulls Arthur forward with
the hand still gripping his hip until Arthur falls onto his palms. Bracing his
feet flat on the bed, Eames starts pumping into Arthur, meeting him on every
downward thrust. The slap of skin on skin sounds obscene paired with Eames'
grunts, but then Eames hits the angle just right, and Arthur can't care about
the sound of anything; he only wants Eames to keep hitting right there over and
over again.
Arthur's arms start to tremble under the strain of keeping himself up. He tries
to hold on for as long as he can, but the orgasm growing tight in his gut saps
him of his concentration, and he all but collapses on top of Eames, skin sticky
and hot. Eames huffs out a laugh, wraps one arm around Arthur's waist, and
rolls them over. It's an awkward tangle of limbs, with Arthur not knowing where
anything should go, and Eames slips out of him in the mess, but Arthur is used
to him now, so it's a fairly smooth slide back in, and the weight of Eames
pinning Arthur down with his hips is dirty and delicious and so fucking
perfect.
Once Eames gets his knees under himself, his rhythm evens out, the muscles
caging Arthur in shifting smoothly beneath the skin. Arthur misses Eames' hand
on his cock, but the drag of Eames' stomach works well enough, and the
sensation increases after Arthur wraps his legs around Eames' hips and arches
into Eames' thrusts.
Eames' head drops to Arthur's shoulder, his lips wet and warm on Arthur's skin
as he grumbles half-words that Arthur doesn't have the energy to comprehend.
Instead, he wraps his arms around Eames' neck, laughs in his ear. Arthur feels
amazing, possibly euphoric, and his orgasm comes from out of nowhere; a half-
hearted punch to the gut that has him spilling over his belly in lazy spurts.
It doesn't last long, having just come moments (or maybe hours, he can't even
tell anymore) ago, but it's enough to get Eames there with him, Eames rasping
out a, "Bloody buggering fuck, Arthur" into the crook of Arthur's shoulder. He
keeps on thrusting, though, until he can't, arms giving out under the weight.
Arthur's breath is forced out of him, but he hardly notices, too focused
instead on everywhere they're touching and, less so, on Eames getting Arthur's
come all over himself.
They stay like that for a long time, Arthur's weak legs falling to the bed as
he combs his fingers through Eames' damp hair. He spares a thought to it being
too fond a gesture, possibly too girly, but he can't care; all he wants is to
feel Eames underneath his hands, and the fingertips he's dragging up and down
Eames' back isn't enough. Arthur smiles, wide, and is grateful for Eames being
boneless, if only so he can't tease Arthur about the dimples.
Eventually, Eames' groans, lips vibrating against Arthur's skin, and props
himself up on his forearms. "Please tell me you're still breathing," he says,
eyes half-closed, with a blissful, lazy on his face.
Arthur can't help it, he beams up at Eames, even though he snarks, "It was
pretty touch and go there for a minute."
Eames presses a thumb to one deep dimple, dips down to kiss Arthur slow and
easy. "I should fetch us a washcloth," he says, when they separate. Wincing, he
adds, "And take care of the rubber."
Arthur hooks an arm around Eames' neck and a ankle around his thigh, leans up
to capture his lips again, murmuring, "Stay. Stay," in between kisses. But
Eames has only had one orgasm where Arthur's had two and he breaks Arthur's
hold easily, lets his fingers trail through the mess on Arthur's stomach as his
slips off the bed. Arthur consoles himself by watching the beauty that is
Eames' ass walking away from him.
Eyes drooping shut on a yawn, Arthur hears Eames humming in the bathroom. His
hand drops to his stomach, and he swirls his fingers through his come, too. The
lazy circles he draws lulling him into a light doze. Vaguely, he hears the
water turn on and off twice, loses track off time between when it shuts off the
second time and Eames coming back to wipe gently at Arthur's groin.
"I can do it," Arthur slurs, frowning. He reaches for Eames, flailing about for
his wrist, but all he finds is air, and then Eames' hand is a warm manacle
around his wrist.
"S'alright, Arthur. Shhh," Eames says, moving on to the sticky come on Arthur's
stomach.
Arthur tilts into the touch, head pillowed on his folded arm. Mumbles, "Feels
nice," well on his way to falling asleep. Eames tweaks one of Arthur's nipples,
then, but Arthur only swats at him some more, aiming for Eames' arm without
opening his eyes.
Arthur barely registers Eames retreating back to the bathroom, but when Eames
comes back, there's a cold glass being pressed to his palm and Eames is guiding
him up from the bed. Arthur allows it. Stands by the bed with a scowl on his
face as he drinks the water and watches Eames turn down the sheets. His stomach
churns, though; Arthur suddenly nervous and unsure if this is his cue to leave
or what he should do.
Eames makes the decision for him, thankfully; takes the empty glass from
Arthur, places it on the nightstand and steers Arthur into the bed by his
shoulders. The sheets smell like sex, now, but Eames' spicy clean scent is
underneath all of that, light and calming, and Eames' body behind Arthur is
solid and reassuring. So is the wide palm Eames splays over Arthur's stomach,
thumb sweeping in short strokes over the skin just beneath the belly button.
Arthur, pulled close to Eames body, his ass snug in the cradle of Eames' hips,
falls asleep with the sensation of damp, swollen lips brushing over the nape of
his neck.
***** Chapter 6 *****
The first time Arthur wakes up, it's two in the morning and he's jackknifing up
from the pillow, confused at his unfamiliar surroundings; not enough moonlight
and too dark walls turning the space around him inky black. Once his eyes
adjust, he looks to his right, at the pale expanse of Eames' arms and legs
taking up as much room in the bed as possible. Impossibly, the sheet provides
Eames some modesty, the edge of it low enough for Arthur to see thick, curly
hair, but still covering Eames' cock. There are dark smudges on his forehead,
wisps of hair that have fallen forward, making him look younger than he is.
Arthur has to fight down the fondness that makes his chest feel too full.
Before he can give in to the urge to push it back, to card his fingers through
Eames' hair over and over again, as if he doesn't already know the weight and
texture of it, his stomach gives a low growl. It's then he remembers he hasn't
eaten for the past twelve hours, not counting the glass of water Eames made him
drink earlier.
Eames snuffles a little, tongue poking out to wet his lips, and he shifts
toward Arthur, eyelids fluttering. Arthur thinks Eames is on the verge of
waking and will probably be just as hungry, so he eases himself off the bed and
tiptoes into the bathroom, grabbing his boxers from the floor on the way.
The kitchen tile is cool under Arthur's bare feet, helping to make him more
alert as he searches through the refrigerator for food. Neither he nor Eames
have had time for grocery shopping in the last few days, so Arthur doesn't find
much of anything substantial; some cold cuts, a block of the aged cheddar Eames
likes for his burgers. There are few eggs Arthur could whip into an omelet for
them to share, but he feels jittery, lit up all over. His concentration is
shot, and any type of cooking would suffer for it.
He lays everything out on a large serving platter: cold cuts, cheese cubes, a
sliced apple, and a pile of wilting celery sticks. It isn't much, but it's
enough for two in the morning and someone too fucked out and giddy to be
handling a knife. Arthur tops it all off by grabbing two huge bottles of water
from Eames' emergency stash and filling two glasses with ice.
Eames' eyes are closed when Arthur returns, but his lips are starting to curl,
his breathing gone shallow. Arthur, still trying to shake off the last stubborn
dregs of uncertainty, places the food and water on the nightstand and kisses
Eames awake, just to see if he can. It's soft, Arthur taking the time to focus
on the taste and texture of those plush pink lips, dry with sleep and rough
under his tongue. Eames swallows Arthur's yelp as he hooks an arm around
Arthur's waist, reeling him in to deepen the kiss and slide a thigh between
Arthur's legs.
Arthur allows himself to get lost in the wet heat of Eames' mouth, pressing in
close for the touch of skin-on-skin. A thumb toys with the waistband of his
boxer briefs, plucking at it like a guitar string until Arthur tilts his head
just so, strokes the flat of his tongue over Eames'. Then, fingers slip
underneath the elastic, nails dig into his ass, and Eames grinds into him, cock
half-hard against Arthur's thigh. Arthur responds in kind, arousal pooling low
and warm in his groin, but his stomach has other ideas; the scratchy growl has
Eames pulling away, attempting to hide a chuckle. He looks over Arthur's
shoulder and says, "I think we should hold that thought, yeah?" His hand,
though, is still cupping Arthur's ass, and he gives it a healthy squeeze; a
promise for later.
Though he knows he should eat, Arthur is too nervous, too keyed up. He tingles
all over, from his head to his feet and everywhere in between. Now that he
knows what it feels like to be pinned down by the weight of Eames' body, Arthur
wants it back again. More than it wants food. Despite the heavy spike of blood
to his cock, Arthur knows he should eat, and ends up taking in as much of Eames
as he can with his eyes; the heavy droop of Eames' eyelids, the dusting of hair
over his chest, his cock laying half-hard against his thigh, the lazy sprawl of
his legs. It is obvious to Arthur that Eames is completely comfortable in a way
Arthur isn't yet, and he swallows hard around a cube of cheese, chases it with
a healthy gulp of water.
Arthur reaches out for a slice of apple, wanting something crisp to crunch on,
and a hand wraps around his wrist, tugs once. It's easy to let himself be
pulled, mind fuzzy with arousal. He lands on Eames' chest, palms flat over the
nipples, the muscle smooth and firm. Without thinking, Arthur drops his head,
mouth open, and sucks a kiss over the breastbone. Draws a line of wet kisses on
Eames' skin until he reaches a nipple to draw circles around it with the tip of
his tongue. Arthur lacks finesse, he knows, but Eames seems to be enjoying it
well enough, if his hissing is any indication.
Eames doesn't let Arthur explore for long, though; wraps an arm around him and
rolls them both over until Arthur is pinned to the bed by his wrists. He kisses
Arthur, then, mouth hot and eager and tasting cool and crisp, like the apple
slice Arthur had been about to eat. Arthur gets lost in it, the way Eames
doesn't just kiss with his mouth, but his whole body; fingers tightening around
his wrists, legs flexing around Arthur's, groins pressed together tight. Eames'
slow grind coaxes the precome from Arthur's slit. It doesn't take long for his
boxers to become sticky.
"Roll over," Eames says, his voice a rough gasp as he pulls away for air.
Arthur is dazed and sluggish to move, so Eames does it for him; sweeps the
half-empty platter of food to the floor and smacks Arthur on the flank. His
hands grab for Arthur's hips, feeling too big for the small span of them, and
pull up, twisting until Arthur is on his hands and knees, head hanging heavy
over his folded arms. A dark thread of arousal coils low in his gut, turning
his blood heavy and sluggish. His cock pulses out a bead of precome and he
imagines he can feel it cling to his skin, that every inch of him is hyperaware
of every tiny sensation.
He definitely doesn't imagine the scratch of nails on his ass, Eames' fingers
curling into the waistband of his boxers, or the damp breath on his tailbone.
Eames pulls off the underwear inch by inch, his mouth leaving behind a blazing
line of kisses. The skin tingles not only from Eames warmth, but from the
scratch of his beard, prickly on Arthur's tender skin.
With the boxers pooled at Arthur's bent knees, Eames curls his hands around
Arthur's thighs, pulls them open and sets his teeth into the meaty part where
ass meets thigh. He makes a low, growling sound deep in his throat as he sucks
a bruise to the surface, then laves the ache with flat of his tongue.
From there Eames follows the inside of Arthur's thigh with the tip of his
tongue, traces the cleft of Arthur's ass and Arthur gasps. Eames pulls up,
then, and he palms Arthur's ass, thumbs gently spreading him open. "You've no
idea how long I've been wanting to do this," he says, barely more than a
wrecked whisper.
Before Arthur can ask, "what," there's a soft wetness at his hole, slick and
lush and-- "What the fu-- Eames!"
And those are the last proper words Arthur says until he wakes up much, much
later.
                                     : : :
The second time Arthur wakes up, it's lighter. Almost too bright. Arthur
squints into it, searching for the clock on the nightstand. He groans and tries
to turn away from the light, but Eames is snugged tight behind him, one heavy
arm looped over Arthur's waist, and something is poking at Arthur's ass.
He reaches back with one hand, smoothing the palm along Eames' side, until he
gets to the hip; follows the groove of it and stops when his fingers find the
thick nest of hair and the base of Eames' cock, more soft than not, but warm
and a little sticky. Arthur works the foreskin a little bit to see what will
happen and smiles, pleased, as it throbs.
With a bit of patience and careful maneuvering, Arthur manages to get face-to-
groin with Eames' cock, all without waking him up.
He's never seen one uncut before, not in real life, and he definitely never
thought of what sex would be like with an uncut guy until Eames. Most of the
boys he regularly hung out with were Jewish. And it's not like the ones who
weren't were lining up to let Arthur in their pants.
He rolls the foreskin back and forth a little, seeing how far it can go without
hurting Eames. Each time he pulls back, the crown glistens a shiny pink.
Precome pearls from the slit, tiny clear beads of it that Arthur leans in to
lick up. Having never sucked cock before, Arthur has nothing to compare it to
other than maybe how Eames' skin tastes. It's about the same, but this is
saltier, more bitter. It certainly isn't bad enough to scare Arthur off just
yet.
Arthur continues his exploration with his tongue, circling the ring of foreskin
every time he draws it back, using the flat of his tongue more each time. Under
his fingers, he can feel the dull throb of blood, the weight of Eames' cock
getting heavier and heavier. The idea of that weight on his tongue prompts a
fresh burst of saliva, the excess of it slowly dripping down Eames' length.
When Arthur follows the trail with his tongue, Eames groans, long and low, and
he shifts, legs falling open to give Arthur more room.
With Eames fully hard, now, Arthur can just barely wrap one hand around the
base; the dark, hot curve of it looks obscene jutting out from circle of
Arthur's paler fingers. It jumps in his grasp, the pulse of precome thick on
the tip of his tongue.
Arthur eases the foreskin back, careful, and then up again; it's not an
entirely new concept, not after the night of the party when he jerked Eames
off, hard and fast, in his pants, but now Arthur gets to watch. Gets to see the
slide of skin and how pink and shiny the crown is. He suckles at it, uses the
tip of his tongue to trace the inside of the foreskin and collect the precome
along the way.
Above him, Eames growls, inhales sharply through his nose and Arthur thinks
Eames might finally be awake. It's confirmed a moment later as Eames murmurs
something filthy and grabs for Arthur's hip to drag him closer. Arthur resists,
though, and rasps, "don't" before swallowing Eames down, surer than he's been
all morning.
Despite Arthur's inexperience, Eames doesn't last long. It's more difficult
than Arthur expected, really, trying to coordinate hand and mouth and tongue
while keeping the teeth out of the way. Then there's the little thing about
breathing that he fumbles; ends up pulling off abruptly, eyes blurred, lungs
desperate for air.
Eames is patient, though, and probably too sleepy to care. His hand falls to
Arthur's head, a gentle pressure guiding him into the rhythm Eames needs.
Arthur hums his thanks, which is what ends up doing Eames in, his come hot-
bitter and thick down Arthur's throat.
Arthur crawls up the bed, then, on arms rubbery with pride. He can't dim his
smile, knows his dimples are on full display, but he's a little giddy with the
rush, savoring the taste of Eames on his tongue. Eames, too, looks pleased,
crooked teeth bared in a wide grin. He is fuzzy around the edges, eyelids heavy
and his face flushed and he's the most gorgeous thing Arthur has ever seen. His
hand comes up to spear through Arthur's hair, pulling him in for a kiss.
Arthur resists at first, says, "But I just--" his lips brushing against Eames.
Eames' only answer is to bring their mouths together, licking into Arthur until
Arthur relents, letting Eames banish the taste of himself from Arthur's mouth.
Too wrapped up in his euphoric pride, Arthur forgets about his own cock, the
tip of it wet against his stomach, until Eames drags his knuckles along the
length of it, wraps warm, clumsy fingers around it and gives it a few lazy
tugs. Arthur laughs into Eames mouth, bright and happy, and slots his fingers
between Eames'. His orgasm, when it comes, isn't like the explosive ones from
during the night; it's soft and quiet, his forehead pressed to Eames' bicep,
rolling with its flex and shift, pulled out of him, seemingly from the tips of
his toes. There's a callus on Eames' thumb, probably from his work in the
garden, that he uses to circle Arthur's slit, and that's all it takes. The
sticky splash of him splattering over both their bellies.
Eames doesn't let go right away, works Arthur through it until he's murmuring a
thick, "Stop, stop," around the lump in his throat. Eames does, eventually,
wiping his sticky hand on Arthur's hip.
They stay like that for long minutes, Arthur's head ducked, Eames' breath
ruffling through his hair. His hand rests heavy on Arthur's thigh, fingers
scratching back and forth over the skin. It raises goosebumps all over, making
Arthur shiver.
"We should probably shower," Arthur says after awhile, the drying come and
sweat turning his skin stiff and gross. "Maybe get some breakfast."
Eames hums in agreement, but makes no move to get out of bed.
Arthur waits a beat longer, then says, "It helps to actually get out of bed,
though."
Eames chuckles, "Yeah, alright."
He moves, slow, making a show of it for Arthur's benefit; rolls his shoulders
and stretches his arms above his head and Arthur snorts, smacks Eames' hip with
the flat of his palm. "Show off," Arthur mutters, feeling both giddy and a
little jealous. Eames' is a physique Arthur will never have and, apparently, he
isn't quite over being a beanpole the rest of his life.
Arthur allows himself to watch Eames walk away, anyway. Lets his gaze drink in
the sight of Eames as unashamedly as Eames seems to feel, almost strutting into
the bathroom. It's kind of funny, how cocky Eames is now, considering he was
the one trying to be all moral and upstanding. Arthur laughs into the pillow,
quiet.
                                     : : :
They end up showering together, which lasts a lot longer than it needs to;
Eames eager to revist all the marks he left on Arthur's neck the night before.
He is especially delighted by the pink beard burn on Arthur's thighs, and sinks
to his knees to press gentle kisses too it before sucking Arthur off.
After, they agree to go to Charlie's for a late brunch. It's run by an older
gentleman named Mike, whose grandfather Charlie opened the place. It's diner
turned restaurant-slash-coffee shop that Arthur has driven past every day on
his way to work, but never actually been to, and though it has been around for
seventy-something years, the various owners were smart enough to make
improvements over time, so it's a lovely mixture of rustic and modern, cozy
without being kitschy. A place that fits Eames perfectly.
Like everybody else they've run into on their trips into town, the waitress,
Jessie, knows Eames and brings him a cup of tea without bothering to ask.
Arthur scans the menu quickly and orders a masala chai latte, something he's
sorely missed since leaving his favorite coffee shop behind for the summer.
It's not the same as home, but it's close. Very close.
Eames orders eggs benedict, Arthur picks French toast. The both of them watch
the world outside while they wait, sitting close enough that Eames can rest his
arm on the back of Arthur's chair, his hand curled casually around Arthur's
neck. His thumb brushes over the skin behind Arthur's ear every so often,
making Arthur's scalp tingle. It's nice, easy to be here, even if Arthur's not
exactly sure how this is supposed to go.
In the silence until their food arrives, Arthur's mind starts to wander,
replaying the night over in his head, starting from the moment he stepped into
Eames' bedroom. He picks everything part, look for look, touch for touch, and
is left with one burning question that got lost in between one orgasm in the
next.
Jessie arrives with their food just as Arthur is about to ask, so he waits.
Lets Eames get a few bites in before he asks, "So. What changed your mind?" in
what Arthur hopes is a causal tone.
Eames gives him a quick glance, focused more on cutting his breakfast into
neat, even bites. "What's that?"
"Last night, what changed your mind about having sex with me?"
Eames looks thoughtful as he chews, swallows deliberately and chases it with a
sip of water. Though the silence is excruciating, Arthur tries to wait it out
with as little fidgeting as possible.
Eames even makes a show of dabbing at a drop of Hollandaise clinging to the
corner of his mouth first, smooths the napkin back over his leg before saying,
"I suppose it's like Mal always says, 'the heart wants what the heart wants.'"
His answer is so glib, so not what Arthur was bracing himself for, that
Arthur's fork stops inches from his open mouth and his whole body freezes. Even
the sounds of the restaurant behind him dim. The only thing he hears are Eames'
words echoing in his brain, and suddenly his hand drops, landing on the table
with a dull thunk.
"Can you ever be honest about yourself?" he asks. The small hysterical note in
his voice makes Arthur wince, but at least the people two tables over aren't
looking, so he tries to ignore it. "You have a non-answer for everything," he
says, shaking his head. "Unbelievable."
"I have been honest about a great many things, Arthur." Eames says, not
appearing at all ashamed. "I am, quite literally, an open book."
Arthur scoffs. "Except for how you're one of the most reclusive best-selling
authors. Except how you couldn't give me a straight answer about why you
wouldn't sleep with me. Except how you don't talk about your family. Except how
you don't talk about yourself at all." He ticks each point off with a finger,
gritting the last one out through clenched teeth. "I may be young, Eames, but
I'm not stupid." Satisfied with Eames' loss for words, he turns back to his own
breakfast and takes a few bites, chewing with a little more force than
necessary.
"Yes, please keep reminding me of how very young you are. That's always
helpful."
Arthur snorts, rough. "I don't understand why you're so hung up on that. It's
not like you're corrupting a minor, for god's sake."
"Corrupting-- oh bloody hell." Tossing his napkin to the table, breakfast only
half eaten, Eames turns in his chair. "Arthur, you are several years younger
than my youngest sister. You are almost young enough to be my child -- I was a
rather promiscuous lad, don't kid yourself." He rushes the last bit before
Arthur can try to argue the point.
"If my age is such a big problem for you, then what changed last night? I
didn't age overnight, last I checked."
"Because…" He sighs, heavy, his gaze falling to the window and the world
going on outside it. His arm is stretched along the back of Arthur's chair, not
quite resting on Arthur's shoulders, but he can feel the heat of it, and the
light touch of Eames' thumb flicking back and forth over a crease in his shirt.
"Much as I hate to admit it, you are very much not a child. You are poised and
brilliant and gorgeous. I can't figure out how you turned out that way, spoiled
though you must have been. Your mother is probably to thank for that." He
winces on the word mother, an involuntary thing that makes Arthur want to
laugh.
"But if I'm so poised and brilliant and gorgeous, how were you able to stay
away from me for so long?"
"Well, you were acting a bit of a child there, weren't you?" He gives Arthur a
knowing look. "Flirting with your Dylan, cozying up to him in front of the
bonfire? Prancing around half naked?"
"I was not prancing," Arthur scowls.
"Prancing is in the eye of the beholder. In any case, they were child's play,
Arthur. Games made up by teenagers ages ago. You are better than that. I
deserve better than that."
"So that's it? I stopped playing the games?"
"Does it really have to be more than that, Arthur?"
Arthur thinks about it while he takes a few bites of his breakfast. "I guess
not." After a swallow of his milk, he asks, "So what happens now?"
Eames sighs again, thumbs at the soft spot behind Arthur's ear. "Let's just see
where the road takes us, hmm?"
Arthur has more he'd like to say, but Eames turns back to his breakfast,
shutting the door on further discussion.
                                     : : :
After that, Arthur doesn't push things. He doesn't assume he'll be sleeping
with Eames every night, or that they'll even have sex again. Not for lack of
wanting it; more to give Eames space than anything else. And Arthur remembers
all too well what happened the last time he assumed anything.
So, on the first night after, because it's there's a torrential downpour going
on outside, Eames gets a fire going and slips one of his favorite classic
movies into the blu-ray player. As Steve McQueen runs around being a bad ass,
Arthur can see why Eames would enjoy it, but half his attention is focused on
the hand in his hair, nails scratching back and forth over his scalp.
They watch two more movies after that, one of which Arthur gets to choose, but
Eames goes no further than tucking Arthur closer to his side. Not that Arthur
minds much. Eames is warm and solid, and though his chest is nothing but
muscle, it makes for a surprisingly comfortable pillow for when Arthur starts
to nod off.
Once the credits from the last movie are rolling, Eames shakes him awake and
Arthur yawns, bids Eames good night. He gets about two steps toward the stairs
before Eames has a hand wrapped around his wrist and tugs. His mouth is soft
and warm under Arthur's, taking away Arthur's chance to protest (not that he
would) or question (not that he really needs to). Eames does let Arthur
rearrange himself at least, so that he settles in a more comfortable straddle
in Eames' lap. Everything turns filthier then, the two of them grinding and
groping, fingers scrabbling for skin.
Arthur gets them to the bed before their pants come off, at least, holding
Eames back with a hand on his chest. It's a struggle, with Eames' arms as long
as Arthur's, and anyway, so what if they pause in the hallway to rut against
each other, cocks thick and hard through their pants.
After a few nights of this, when they're in bed and still a little sticky and
Eames is scratching his fingernails through the hair on Arthur's belly, he
says, "Stop pretending like you don't know you're coming to bed with me.
Feigned naïveté doesn't become you."
Arthur can only smile and smile.
He discovers, randomly, that Eames has a thing for his hair, carding his
fingers through it over and over again, tugging and pulling and burying his
nose in it when they're snug in bed. More often than not, Arthur comes home
from work dirty and sweaty and sore with his hair slicked back against the
scalp, and Eames always insists on messing it up, massaging Arthur's scalp
until he's little more than a puddle on the floor.
Needless to say, Eames' thing works for Arthur.
Arthur returns the favor by having a thing for Eames' tattoos. It doesn't take
him long to trace each one with tongue and teeth, but his absolute favorite is
the one on Eames' hip, "till I die rf." Arthur doesn't know what it means,
hopes maybe Eames will tell him eventually, but that doesn't prevent his
fingers from following the lines of it over and over again, until he knows it
with his eyes closed.
And if there's a constant mouth-shaped bruise there, changing positions every
so often? Well, Eames doesn't say anything, so Arthur doesn't stop.
One thing Eames insists on, though, is for Arthur to spend more time with his
friends, either at the cabin or not. It isn't something Arthur did a lot of
before sleeping with Eames, but Eames insists that he is not about to turn
Arthur's summer into one long snogging session, no matter how horny Arthur
gets.
(Arthur agrees to it, mostly because Eames is three fingers deep in his ass and
mercilessly teasing Arthur with feather-light strokes against his prostate.
Arthur vows to return the favor eventually.)
Other than that, things don't change much; Eames doesn't run around naked or
insist Arthur sit in his lap at every opportunity. He does get a little
handsier, though. Eyes more heated, especially when they get into their
friendly disagreements. Disagreements that are worked out with the Xbox far
less than they used to be.
By the end of July, Arthur's sort of fallen into a groove; spending the days
working with his friends, and sometimes the nights, too. Just as often coming
home to Eames and being greeted with a soft, knowing kiss and fingers in his
hair. Better still is waking up in Eames' bed, his body a long, broad line of
heat wrapped around Arthur. It's something he gets used to fairly quickly,
along with the permanent smile on his face and the warmth in his chest.
So, it comes as a bit of a shock, though not entirely unexpected, when Eames
reminds Arthur that his sister is due in, and that Arthur will have to sleep on
the couch.
He knew about the visit of course. It had been one of the first things Eames
explained to him. At the time, though, it didn't seem like a big thing.
Sleeping on the couch for two weeks? He's slept in worse places. But back then,
he hadn't been sleeping with Eames, hadn't even imagined it a possibility. Now
that it's happened? The idea stings.
"Surely I don't need to remind you how you came to be here?" Eames says the one
time Arthur mentions the new accommodations.
It takes a minute to dawn on Arthur: His aunt. Eames' sister.
"I don't fancy your mother being too pleased if she were to find out I've
defiled her darling lad." He doesn't mean it to be unkind, but it still stings
a little. The thought that Eames doesn't want anybody knowing about them.
Arthur can't say no, of course. Eames is right, especially about Arthur's
mother knowing, and there's no use fighting over it, not when they only have a
few nights left together. And he reminds himself, as he moves his stuff out of
the bathroom and into Eames', that it's only temporary. He can last two weeks;
he'd lasted longer than that while Eames insisted on being stubborn.
                                     : : :
Eames sister, as it turns out, is like the female version of Eames in
personality if not physically. She heads straight for Arthur when she lets
herself into the cabin, smiling with her arms open wide. Her head fits right
underneath his chin and he breathes in the peppermint smell of her hair.
"Lovely to see you as well, Samantha," Eames says from behind Arthur, but he
can hear the grin in Eames' voice and she gives Arthur one last, tight squeeze
before barreling into Eames, too.
She criticizes everything about Eames, from the clothes he's wearing to the
length of his hair to the fact that hasn't called their mother in ages. She
even goes so far as to say he doesn't look like he's been eating much. But
there's a warmth there, underneath, that Arthur recognizes from his own
sisters' teasing. The most important thing Arthur picks up out of all of her
complaining, though, is how Samantha ("Call me Sam.") calls him "Danny."
"Danny?" Arthur asks, under his breath as he follows Eames up the stairs with
approximately two hundred pounds of luggage in his hands.
"She's the only one allowed to call me that," Eames hoarse-whispers back,
cutting Arthur a sharp glare from over his shoulder.
"Right, right." Arthur tries to appear properly admonished, but he can't stop
his lips from twitching.
Later, after dinner, Sam raids Eames' alcohol cabinet and mixes the most god
awful concoctions known to man and insists that Arthur and Eames drink them. In
between one drink and the next, Sam and Eames both fight to tell the most
embarrassing childhood stories of each other, making Arthur laugh so hard his
stomach hurts.
And, though while they'd all prepared dinner together with Eames doing a fairly
decent job of keeping his hands to himself, the alcohol loosens his inhibitions
enough for him to indulge in carding his fingers through Arthur's hair,
pinching his ear lobe, or thumbing at an errant drop of tequila on his lips.
Each touch makes Arthur's stomach flip, and his gaze darts over to Sam, an
obvious tell, Arthur is sure. She seems blissfully oblivious, but that doesn't
mean Arthur lets his guard down, either. Luckily, the amount of alcohol he
drinks keeps his arousal to a minimum and makes it easier for him to pass out
on a lonely couch, between cold sheets.
                                     : : :
Halfway through Sam's stay, Arthur can't resist congratulating himself on a job
well done. Between Arthur working an insane amount of hours and Sam keeping
Eames busy either with gossiping about family or celebrities or townies, or
taking her shopping, he and Eames both manage to make it through the entire
week without any slip-ups.
He doesn't even glimpse down the hall when he pads into the kitchen, bare feet
slapping quietly on the tile. With his mouth open on a wide yawn, Arthur walks
directly for the sink and a glass of water, and barely has time to react to the
broad, shadowed back in his way. He freezes for a moment as he tries to decide
whether to turn back or get his water. Eames' heavy sigh, the slight lift and
drop of his shoulders makes up Arthur's mind for him.
Carefully, he threads his arms through Eames', skimming his palms over Eames'
waist and stomach, over his ribs, to settle on his chest. His nape is warm
where Arthur's forehead is pressed to it, the skin dry and smooth. Arthur rides
through the rise and fall of Eames' chest, focuses on trying to match their
breathing patterns.
"This shouldn't be so hard, you know," says Eames, quiet and low. His hand
comes up to take one of Arthur's, his thumb circling Arthur's palm.
"It isn't, actually," Arthur replies with a lewd roll of his hips. His cock is
soft, but Arthur knows it would only take a few minutes of this reconnecting to
change that.
Eames chuckles, says, "Don't be such a smart arse," and reaches behind him to
slip two fingers into waistband of Arthur's boxers and pull him forward. In the
shadows, his face looks older, more severe. Arthur brushes a stray lock of hair
from Eames' face. "You're eighteen, your blue balls should've fallen off by
now."
"Why do you think I've been working so much? That's how I get by. Lose myself
in the work." His fingers shift from Eames' forehead to his temple, sift
through the short hair, there. Eames leans into the touch with a minute tip of
his head, just enough for Arthur to feel the pressure, and his mouth parts,
lips wet and pale pink.
It's only a short distance for Eames to lean and kiss Arthur, then, slotting
their bodies together with Arthur pinned to the counter, Eames' wide hands
spanning Arthur's back. The rasp of skin on skin raises goose bumps all over
and Arthur shivers, arms wrapped tight around Eames' waist, pulling him close,
closer.
It's easy for Arthur to forget everything around him except for Eames; the heat
of his mouth and slickness of his tongue, the solid thigh between Arthur's legs
and the broad chest pressed to his own. Eames is the only thing around Arthur.
The only thing that matters.
Until he abruptly isn't, pulling back with a sharp snap of his head. Dazed,
Arthur tries to follow, but Eames has a hand flat on Arthur's chest, and then
he's gone, standing in front of the refrigerator with the door open. Seconds
later, Arthur hears a high-pitched yawn from behind him and he turns his head
to see Sam walk in, her hair a wild mess. She has a hand to her mouth and her
eyes closed, and she bumps her hip on the kitchen counter as she comes around.
Arthur reaches out a hand to guide her and ends up startling her in the
process.
"Having a party without me, are we?" she says, voice thick with sleep but still
cheery. Arthur isn't sure how she does it. "Don't stop on my account."
"I was just off to bed, actually," says Eames. He closes the refrigerator and
leans in to kiss her on the cheek. There is no knowing glance for Arthur before
he turns and disappears down the hallway.
Sam turns to him then, eyes far more alert than they were a second ago. Arthur
has to fight the urge to cover his heated cheeks. The embarrassment, at least,
is taking care of the hard-on in his pants. "I, uh… Glass of water."
"Me as well, please," says Sam, running the cold water while Arthur gets the
glasses.
They drink in awkward silence, standing side-by-side behind the sink. Every so
often, her elbow nails him in the side, and Arthur tries to inch away slowly
every time.
Sam finishes first and sets her glass in the sink. "Well, that was lovely. Good
night, Arthur."
"G'night, Sam." He watches her leave as he finishes his glass.
                                     : : :
Eames and Sam leave for New York City early the next morning, giving Arthur
some much needed breathing room. It's strange to have the house to himself
after a week of the two of them filling it with their arguing or laughter or
both, but the time away will help cool his libido again, get him focused back
on work, and the fact that the first day college -- something he'd sort of
forgotten in the euphoria of having sex with Eames -- is not all that far away.
They return three days later, car overflowing with shopping bags of every shape
and size, and Arthur only has to remind himself twice that Sam will be gone
soon.
But just in case, he doesn't go into the kitchen for any more late night
glasses of water.
It's not until the day before Sam is set to leave that Arthur runs into her -
- literally -- alone and looking to talk. It's not that Arthur's been avoiding
her. More like he's been keeping himself busy with things she wouldn't be
interested in. And seeing his friends from the nursery more.
This time, though, Arthur can't avoid her. He spots her on the deck after his
ritual dive in the lake, curled up in one of the chairs with a mug sitting on
the arm. Even sleep-rumpled with no make-up on, she is beautiful. Soft and
comfortable, though her eyes are sharp.
"Do you have a spare moment, Arthur?" she asks, patting the arm of the chair
next to her.
Arthur fidgets, checks his watch. He can't be entirely sure this conversation
will be about the other night, but from the way she's watched him and he and
Eames together since she returned from the city leaves little room for doubt.
"Yeah, sure."
She smiles wide and warm, adjusts herself in her chair so she's facing Arthur.
"We haven't had much time to get to know each other, you and I."
"Not exactly what you're here for, though, is it?"
"No. I suppose not. Doesn't seem right, though. I know your aunt so well, and
she talks about her family so much. I feel like I should know you."
Arthur shrugs a shoulder. "What would you like to know? I'm pretty much an open
book."
She takes a minute to think and finally decides on, "Anything you wish to tell
me."
"That's a little vague," Arthur says, skeptical.
"Okay then," she leans closer, so that their knees bump together, "tell me
something that Eames doesn't know. " This close, Arthur realizes her eyes are
blue, like Eames', but brighter, with the same hint of mischief.
Arthur settles back in the chair to think about it, fingers drumming on his
knee. He and Eames don't talk much, not about themselves anyway, which is
something Arthur hadn't noticed until now. He's about to frown at the thought,
but then he smiles wide and his chest puffs with pride.. "I was four when I
recited the alphabet backwards for the first time."
"So you were always a smart child."
"Yes," Arthur nods. "I like hard work. I like knowing things. I like precision.
My sisters say I'm too anal, but…" He shrugs. "I can't help it. It's
probably why I don't do so well with cooking."
"How so?"
"No imagination."
"Ah, yes. I can see why you would like to be an editor, then."
"I think I could be really good at it."
"I have no doubt." Thankfully, it doesn't sound like condescension, tempered
with her warm smile. "And what about Eames? He's been good, yeah? Teaching you
the proper way to handle a stubborn author?"
Arthur's mind betrays him as it flashes back to the morning before Sam arrived;
Eames soap-slick and groaning in the shower, Arthur jerking him off with quick,
wet strokes, eyes darting between Eames' face and his cock. He ducks his head
to hide the heat in his cheeks. "Yeah," he says, voice raspy. "Yeah, he has."
"Arthur?" The hand she covers with his is soft, gentle. The sincerity in her
voice makes his stomach twist and he shoots up from the chair to keep from
throwing up.
He paces back and forth in front of her, ten feet in either direction, hands
gesticulating wildly. Once he starts talking, he can't stop. "Look. Okay. He
didn't do anything, okay? I wanted it. I did. I know it's weird. Maybe. I don't
know. I've always had a thing for older guys, and yeah, maybe it's daddy
issues, and maybe it isn't. I don't know. I'm. Y'know, psychology isn't my
strong suit. But I pursued him. Really. And I don't-- I don't regret it. Not a
bit. I'm sorry if you don't get it, really I am, because I know he loves you
and values your opinion. But. I don't. I'm not sorry. I'm not sorry it
happened."
"Arthur, darling, please sit?"
Arthur sits, but his knee has other ideas, bouncing up and down to try and get
rid of the nervous energy. His chest is still heaving, too, desperate for
oxygen after his diatribe.
"You're going off to school soon, yeah?"
Arthur winces; it's something that he's been trying to ignore since he first
slept with Eames, that he's been on the downward slide of his stay here since
before that night. Arthur isn't usually one to bury his head in the sand, but
he also isn't one to sleep with thirty-two year old men. Apparently, he's
giving himself a few allowances this summer.
"And what will happen with the two of you when you leave?"
"We haven't really talked about it. It's not. I think we both understand this
isn't necessarily a forever thing. We're allowed to have some fun, right?" The
tone of question ticks up at the end, betraying the uncertainty he's been
feeling ever since that night in the kitchen.
"Of course you are. I only worry that one of you may have higher expectations
than the other. That one of you will end up hurt at the end."
Arthur chuckles. "Is this the 'if you hurt my big brother I'll break your legs'
speech?"
For the first time, she looks sad. The honesty of it makes his heart lurch. "In
a way, yes. I know Danny is incredibly charismatic and generous with his
feelings, but there's more to him than that."
"I am aware of that," Arthur says, slightly offended.
"I'm sure you are." She rubs a thumb over his knee, lips pressed together in a
thin line, as if she wants to say more, but she looks up at him instead, eyes
shining. "I'm just as worried about you, too, though. Have you ever been in a
relationship before?"
"This isn't a relationship. It's…" Arthur isn't sure what to call it.
They aren't boyfriends, Arthur is sure. But it's more than friends with
benefits, too.
"Just because you haven't given it an official title doesn't mean it isn't a
relationship. And all relationships have the potential to end badly. For
someone to be hurt in the end. Have you thought about what will happen to him
while you're gone? Will he come see you? You him? Will you agree to see other
people? Introduce him to your mother?"
Arthur pales at the last.
"I thought as much." She takes he hand, then. The skin soft and dry and warm,
and he clings to it like a lifeline. "Listen, Arthur, if you make my brother
happy, then I am happy. You are a wonderful, brilliant young man. My brother
could pick far worse. Has picked far worse, if you ask me. But it isn't as
simple as you wanting to be together making it so. It takes work. And with a
relationship like yours, people will talk. They will make it difficult for you,
for him. All I want is for you to think about that first. You deserve to sow
some of your wild oats, too."
Confused, Arthur's gaze drops to their hands. "But I've never been that guy.
The one that sleeps around."
Her fingers squeeze his, gentle. "Just because you haven't been doesn't mean
you won't want to be."
Arthur is dubious, but he doesn't argue the point.
"I don't mean to burst your bubble. Really, I don't. I only want you two to
walk into this with both eyes open. That's the only way this will work."
"I know," he answers, glum. Adds, "I have given it some thought, you know. Not
a lot, but..." he lets the sentence trail off because 'I just really like sex
with Eames' isn't a good enough excuse to suspend reality.
She studies him for a moment, fingers drumming on the arm of her chair. "How
much has Eames told you about himself?"
"Uh. Well, you, obviously. And Mal and Dom. I don't..." The change in subjects
is confusing, and Arthur feels stupid flailing around in his memories, trying
to pick up the tidbits of his past Eames has given him. "Not much, I guess."
"So you don't know how he ended up in the middle of bumfuck Virginia?"
"No," Arthur answers, meek.
She tilts her head to the side and gives Arthur a shrewed glance. "Have you
never been curious about it?"
Arthur startles. "Of course I have! He's not exactly the most forthcoming
person when it comes to talking about himself."
"No, I suppose he isn't."
Arthur hesitates, reaches out to touch her arm, but stops his arm in mid-air.
"Is there something I should know?"
Sam shakes her head. "I can't answer that, love. It's Eames story to tell, if
he chooses to tell it." The pained look on her face makes Arthur's stomach fall
to his feet. "But that's the chance you take, love, when getting involved with
someone with a history. You have take the good with the bad."
As Arthur searches for something to say, she cards her fingers through his
hair. He tips into the warm weight of her hand, seeking the comfort she's
clearly willing to give.
"I do remember what's it like to be eighteen, you know." Her smile is fond and
her eyes bright. "It's easy to be selfish, especially if your partner is so
eager to give. All I'm asking, Arthur, is that you be careful with his poor,
decrepit heart. And with yours, too."
Arthur nods, swallowing hard around the lump in his throat. "I'll try."
"Thank you, Arthur. You really are brilliant, you know." She rises, then, tea
cup in one hand, the other spearing through Arthur's damp hair to palm his
head. He tips it back automatically, eyes wide as she leans down and gives him
the stereotypical double cheek kiss. Her lips are cool and sticky and she
smells like honeysuckle. "Good luck. With school and…everything else. It
was lovely to meet you."
"You, too, Sam. Thanks." She pulls away, reaches up to tuck a stray lock of
hair behind his ear. The smile on his face feels a little goofy, especially
when she thumbs at one of his dimples.
"Must go pack," she says at last, motioning for the door. Arthur nods, gaze
sliding to the lake as she leaves.
***** Chapter 7 *****
Life after Sam doesn't quite return to what it was before. Though Arthur does
move back into Eames' room for his remaining two weeks, there is something
quieter about Eames, and Arthur is just enough of a coward not to ask what's
wrong. There are glimpses of Eames from before, though; a wicked glint in his
eye, his throaty laugh, the way he can't seem to stop sucking bruises into
Arthur's hips. Arthur wants to chalk the rest of it up to both of them having
to face the fact that their summer is almost over, that they are almost over.
(Arthur keeps trying to tell himself that's wishful thinking. Mostly, he
believes it.)
It's harder, too, because fall sales are ramping up at the nursery, which puts
them in an all hands on deck situation. Arthur is exhausted by the time he gets
home, too weary to help with dinner, or sometimes to even play Xbox. He's
grateful that Eames doesn't mind and, more often than not, Arthur decides to
join Eames in a late night dip in the lake.
Because of all the work, the last two weeks fly by and, as he packs the last of
his stuff into his car, it feels to Arthur as though he's just arrived for the
first time, both eager to get away from his mom, but also dreading the weird
old man that's supposed to be his mentor.
Arthur chuckles to himself, at how he got things so very, very wrong, and Eames
asks, "What's so funny?"
He turns to Eames, then, squinting into the sun to see him leaning against one
of the columns on the porch, legs crossed at the ankles. He's wearing a gray
sleeveless undershirt and his rattiest pair of jeans; his feet are bare, his
arms crossed over his chest. "I'm glad you could dress up for this auspicious
occasion, Eames."
Eames shrugs easily, looking to all the world almost entirely carefree. Arthur
can tell, though. He sees the slight slump of Eames shoulders, the tightness
around his eyes and lips. "We can't all be a sartorial genius like you, yeah?"
He unfolds himself and approaches Arthur, reaching out to tug on the hem of his
sweater.
On the porch, behind where he was just standing, is a carrier bag. Arthur
points at it and says, "Did you get me something to remember you by? And here I
thought I that was what the mind-blowing sex was for." The barb earns him a
small grin, crooked teeth catching on the lower lip before it can grow too
wide.
"Just go look, smart arse."
He does, opening the bag enough to see copies of Eames books, the exact same
copies Arthur spent all of June and part of July reading. "I don't understand,"
he says, looking back at Eames, confused.
"What did I say about feigned naïveté, darling? It really doesn't
suit." He closes the distance between them, uses a thumb to smooth the wrinkles
from Arthur's forehead. "You think I didn't notice them missing from my shelf?"
A small sound curls low in the back of his throat, making Arthur's cheeks burn.
Before he can stutter out a reply, Eames wraps a hand around his neck and pulls
him in for a kiss. "It means the world to me that you tried," he rasps when
they pull apart for air.
Arthur barely manages to scrape out a hoarse, "Thank you," around the lump in
his throat.
"Right, well." Eames clears his throat and turns to the car, but his hand is
still around Arthur's neck, warm and wide, thumb resting over the pulse. Arthur
sways into the weight of it. "You have everything, then? Your clothes? Your
laptop? That gorgeous suit of yours?" He growls the last one, the memory of it
flashing hot in his eyes.
"Eames." Arthur grasps his wrist, tugs so Eames will look at him. "Thank you.
For everything." He can only hope Eames understand what he is trying to say;
for the first time in a very long time, Arthur is at a loss for words.
"Arthur?" Eames says, one hand on Arthur's shoulder, thumb rubbing circles
around the hollow of Arthur's throat, his face serious. "May I give you one
last piece of advice?"
"Yes?"
"Don't ever thank people for sex. Makes you appear weak, and you are never ever
weak."
"Oh my god," Arthur cries, "You are such an asshole." He shoves at Eames'
shoulder, letting his hand linger a little longer than necessary so he can
memorize the heat of that skin. "I was not thanking you for sex."
Eames laughs, finally. For real this time. It makes Arthur's stomach clench and
his throat tighten.
"So, I'd better get going," Arthur says, hooking a thumb at his car. Eames
sobers immediately, but there is still a small smile there; Arthur brushes his
fingers over the eye crinkles, lets the tips of them drag over the tattoo on
Eames' bicep as they drop.
"Right, then. Do drive safe. Tell your mother hello. Best wishes for uni." He
pulls Arthur into another kiss, with an arm around Arthur's waist, fitting
their hips together. Eames growls into it, goading Arthur to give it his best,
and he does; wrapping his arms around Eames' broad shoulders, palming the sun-
warm skin as he matches Eames with teeth and tongue. He ends it by closing his
teeth on Eames' lush bottom lip and tugging, then sucking.
"I'm gonna miss that mouth," Arthur says, voice ragged, breathless.
Eames palms Arthur's ass through his pants. "I'm gonna miss that arse."
"Asshole," Arthur repeats, affectionate.
                                     : : :
Arthur's return to Annapolis is bittersweet.
All of his friends are back in town for one last hurrah, but things feel
unfinished between him and Eames. They never had The Talk; about what it was
between them, where it might be headed, if they would ever see each other
again. On the one hand, Arthur wanted to follow Eames' lead. His, "follow the
road wherever it takes us" philosophy. On the other hand, Arthur's precise
nature died a little more each day the issue was left unaddressed.
Getting through the days, at least, is fairly easy; getting his things together
for the move to New York City, two of his sisters, Sarah and Annie, showing up
to hear about his summer and to see him off. He has hardly any time at all to
think about Eames. And when he does, his mother always seems to catch him and
ask him what was wrong.
The nights are harder though, his full bed feeling too small and lonely now
that he knows the difference.
It's a relief, then, to get to New York City, mom and sisters in tow, the
Tuesday before Labor Day. Arthur and his sisters become too busy with showing
their mother around the city she hasn't seen in twenty years. To Arthur, it
feels a little like the last time they'll be together as a family, a feeling
exacerbated by the arrival of his other two sisters, Vanessa and Jennifer, and
it's almost like old times, the four girls dragging Arthur around here and
there, their mother following behind to make sure he isn't harmed in any way.
On the Saturday before classes, they all help Arthur set up his dorm room,
which takes all of about five minutes, thanks to the size of it. His roommate,
Jeff, is a little overwhelmed by the flock of women, but they leave soon
enough, agreeing (under duress) to wait for Arthur outside the building so he
can meet his floormates in peace.
As usual, all five of the women in his life are teary-eyed by the time he gets
downstairs, his mom the worst of all.
"Would you quit acting like you're never going to see me again?!?" he says,
pulling each sister into a tight hug. They're all shorter than him, the tallest
of them hitting him about chest height, and he has a sudden, brief flash of
Sam, her head tucked under his chin. The memory of it -- of Eames -- makes his
chest ache. "I will be fine. Now please, go? Do you really want me to start off
my college career with this kind of reputation?"
"Actually--" Vanessa starts to say, eyes dancing, but Arthur cuts her off with
a hand over her mouth.
"Just go. I will call you." He watches them to make sure they get into a taxi
before he turns to face the dorm and heaves a sigh.
Back in his room, Jeff is patting himself down. He looks up as Arthur walks in.
"Hey dude, a bunch of us are gonna go grab some food. Wanna come?"
Arthur does, slinging his messenger bag over his shoulder.
They're cutting through Washington Square, exchanging information about their
respective majors, when Arthur's neck begins to prickle. His back straightens
automatically and he scans the benches, the columns, not quite sure of what
he's looking for until he finds it.
A man sitting about fifteen feet away, arms stretched long over the back of the
bench, legs wide in a lazy sprawl. He's wearing a pair of aviator sunglasses
and his hair stirs in the breeze.
"Hey, guys?" Arthur says, not taking his eyes from Eames. "I'll meet up with
you later, okay?" None of them really notice, and Arthur doesn't actually mind.
He approaches Eames slow, stopping about a foot away, his heart feeling too
heavy in his chest. Arthur opens his mouth to say hi, but what comes out
instead is an almost irritated, "What're you doing here?"
Eames shrugs. "Thought I'd go out for a stroll."
"That's quite a walk for you. Virginia to New York City." Arthur's scowl
deepens.
"Thank you for the compliment Arthur, but I'm not that fit. No, I just happen
to have a hotel I favor right down the block there--" he points "--and I wanted
to enjoy this lovely afternoon. My feet carried me here of their own accord.
Funny how that works, isn't it?"
Arthur is torn between wanting to drop into Eames' lap and press his nose to
the hollow of his throat, the skin of it shining with sweat, exposed by the
open vee of Eames' shirt. The other half of him wants to kick Eames for being
so stoic, so seemingly unaffected by Arthur's presence. It's a little bit
childish, he knows. He'll blame it on having had to deal with his mother and
sisters all week.
Before Arthur can say anything, though, Eames pulls off his sunglasses and his
expression softens and Arthur's resolve crumbles like so much ash. "Care to
join me for dinner?" Eames asks as he stands.
                                     : : :
Dinner, as it turns out, extends to a late night tour of the city, to sex in
the hotel afterwards, to a decadent breakfast in bed the morning after. In
fact, Eames only allows Arthur out of his sight long enough for Arthur to pick
up his orientation packet and student ID for the rest of the weekend.
Eames doesn't explain what he's doing in New York; if he's there on business or
if he's only there to see Arthur, but there are no secretive phone calls, no
phone calls of any kind, so Arthur lets Eames keep his reasons to himself.
Though he enjoys spending every waking and sleeping moment with Eames,
especially seeing the city through Eames' eyes, Arthur vows that he will scale
the side of the building if necessary, but he has to be back on campus by
Tuesday, if only so his roommate won't report him missing. Arthur should be
suspicious of Eames' easy agreement.
They eat dinner at the hotel on their last night, most of the time spent
discussing the classes Arthur was accepted into. It's not the first time
they've had a discussion like this, but Arthur feels weird anyway, knowing this
is the last time he'll see Eames for awhile. Possibly ever. Again, he has this
knot of dread growing in the pit of his belly, making it difficult to eat his
filet. But Eames looks happy and Arthur doesn't want to ruin what little time
they have left.
He's grateful for that later, when Eames is sucking him off, fast and wet.
Arthur comes with a yelp and falls back onto the bed in a wide sprawl.
"I can't believe you make the old man do all the work," Eames teases between
nipping kisses into the skin over Arthur's hips and ribs.
Arthur tries to say something biting, manages to get out, "I was gonna…"
and a vague gesture with his hand before Eames is claiming his mouth, moving
down to suck a bruise into his neck. Slick fingers brush over his hole, then,
and his legs fall open to better accommodate Eames' hips.
"I'll just fuck you until you get hard again, all right?" he says, stroking his
fingers deep.
Arthur gathers the strength to press a palm to Eames' forearm. "Then do it," he
hisses, and Eames eyes snap to Arthur's face, dark and hot and intent.
True to his word, Eames fucks into him; slow at first, with one thick arm
around Arthur's waist, making small adjustments with each thrust to get the
best angle. Arthur shouts at the first burst of sparks behind his eyes, tries
to get a hand on himself to help things along, but Eames is insistent.
Eames rasping, "Only my cock, love," makes Arthur's stomach swoop, but the
words seem to do the trick, his cock filling slow and steady. Eames grins at
his handiwork; tips forward until Arthur is on his back and his knees are
hooked over Eames' shoulders. His stomach trembles from the strain, but it
feels amazing, Eames so close their open mouths bump together. Eames' wide
hands cradle Arthur's head, thumbs tucked behind Arthur's ears.
Arthur's hands are on Eames' head, too, fingers twisting in the hair at Eames'
nape every time he circles his hips. They swallow each other's breathless
words, Arthur desperate for orgasm again, even though Eames seems intent to
keep fucking into him all night long. He wants to let go of Eames, to use his
hand to ease the ache in his cock, knowing that Eames will follow right after,
but he can't deny Eames what he wants, either.
And it's good, really, with Eames' thighs pressed to the backs of Arthur's. He
can feel the muscles flex as Eames thrusts, harder and hard until, finally, he
freezes. Groans out, "Oh fucking bloody hell, Arthur."
Arthur can feel the warmth of the come through the condom and clenches down
hard, whispers, "yeah yeah yeah, c'mon" into Eames' slack mouth. He lets go
then, too, uses his precome to work his cock. Eames groans deep when Arthur
comes, his body gripping Eames even tighter through the orgasm.
Arthur makes a small sad sound as Eames pulls out, missing the feeling of being
filled, of Eames' heat around him. Eames seems to understand; makes a show of
tying off the condom and throwing it away. Crawls into the bed and says, "Don't
worry love, we've got all night."
Snuggling closer to Eames' chest, Arthur smiles.
                                     : : :
Arthur blinks against the white morning light, eyes feeling puffy from lack of
sleep. He turns, limbs stiff, within the loose circle of Eames arms,
discovering gross, dry patches of skin on them both as he rolls. The sheets,
too, are a mess of lube and come and sweat, and Arthur wrinkles his nose,
sighing. It's one thing to be too fucked out to realize what kind of a mess
he's sleeping in; it's another matter entirely to know and decide to remain
there, anyway.
Eames barely stirs when Arthur carefully lifts his hand and wriggles out from
underneath it, finding the floor to be almost as big a mess as the bed. Their
clothes are strewn about everywhere. It's kind of embarrassing.
His shower is quick, perfunctory. He has a lot he wants to do today, and as
much as he would love to laze in bed all day -- well, maybe not that bed, but a
bed -- he can't. Somehow, he has to figure out how to bring up the subject of
them with Eames and say good-bye to him, too. For real this time. It's not the
ideal situation, but when one makes their bed, they must lie in it.
Arthur thinks again of the bed and winces.
Eames is less picky about where he sleeps, so long as he is allowed to stay
horizontal. Arthur pinches him on the side and the ass until Eames relents,
rolling out of bed, grumbling all the way. Once he's finally knuckled the sleep
from his eyes, he gives Arthur, wrapped only in a towel, his arms full of their
clothes, an appreciative once-over.
"Oh no," Arthur says, dropping the clothes as Eames stalks toward him. "You are
not getting that disgusting mess--" he waves a hand, indicating the entirety of
Eames' body "--anywhere near me."
Even with Arthur's palm splayed wide on his chest, Eames doesn't stop until
Arthur is backed into a wall. His hand curls behind Arthur's neck, warm and
dry, and pulls Arthur close, so that their mouths are only inches apart. "You
say the sweetest things," Eames teases before claiming Arthur's mouth in a
desperate, bruising kiss. He tastes stale and gross, but it's the last time
Arthur might get to do this, so he doesn't end it until he can't go without air
anymore.
"Get in the shower," Arthur orders, voice wrecked. Gasping for air, he rests
his forehead against Eames'. "Before I change my mind."
Grinning, Eames' fingers play with the knot in Arthur's towel.
"Please," Arthur rasps, sounding weaker than he means to.
Eames huffs. "Since you asked so nice." Arthur doesn't watch him go.
Once Eames is in the shower, Arthur takes a few minutes to order a proper
breakfast for the two of them, nothing like what they've been indulging in the
last few days, but Eames had been going a bit overboard with that anyway.
After the food is ordered, Arthur starts picking up again, decides to strip the
sheets from the bed after he's done with the clothes. Eames emerges from the
bathroom then, rubbing at his wet hair with a towel but otherwise naked. Arthur
rolls his eyes.
Eames glances at the bed, then at the soiled sheets on the floor. "You are
aware they pay people to deal with that?"
"Nobody is paid enough to deal with that." He doesn't look at Eames, too busy
searching through the wrinkled clothes to give Eames the attention he wants.
Eames doesn't seem to care, though; keeps darting a hand forward to loosen
Arthur's towel, even though Arthur keeps smacking his hand away.
"I wish I'd taken a second to put these away properly," Arthur sighs, mostly to
himself, with another smack to Eames' hand. It comes too late, though. He can
feel the towel slipping in the back, inch by inch until it's only a miracle
that it hasn't fallen off. Arthur's sure if he lets Eames stare long enough,
the weight of his gaze will have the towel off in no time. Of course, by this
time, Arthur is hard and Eames is a long line of heat at his back, hair damp
where it brushes his shoulder as Eames sucks a kiss into Arthur's neck.
Eames manages to turn Arthur around, backs him into the wall again and falls
carefully to his knees, where he proceeds to give Arthur the slowest, most
exquisite blow job of his life. Arthur can't look away from the sight of Eames
on his knees; lips pink and shiny, wrapped around Arthur's cock. The fan of
dark lashes, twinkling blue eyes. Eames is determined to draw it out and Arthur
can only let him, mind blanking on the plan he'd been forming about how to talk
to Eames.
"We are going to talk, you know," he says, scowling down at Eames. Eames hums
in return, drawing out the orgasm from the base of Arthur's spine. His hands
cling to Eames' head, fingertips white where they press against the scalp.
Arthur comes shouting Eames' name, toes curling into the plush carpeting, legs
trembling. He's pretty sure he'd be a puddle on the floor if Eames wasn't
pinning Arthur to the wall by his hips. Just as he's about to pull Eames up by
the back of his neck so he can return the favor, Arthur hears a knock at the
door. His laugh is far too wild for the moment, but he doesn't have the energy
to care.
"Just be a tick, darling," Eames says, grabbing Arthur's towel from the floor
to wrap around his waist. Loose-limbed and a little fuzzy around the edges,
Arthur somehow manages to slip into his boxer briefs and the jeans from
yesterday, frowning all the way.
Eames comes back with the cart, chewing on a strawberry, and watches Arthur try
to pick out which shirt is least wrinkled. Arthur can hear Eames digging around
in his suitcase but doesn't pay him any attention until something soft hits him
on the head and falls to the floor. "I know it's not your usual style," Eames
says, setting out the food on the table, "But at least it's not wrinkled."
Arthur unfolds it to see what it is; the grease-stained Property of Warner
Bros. t-shirt Eames had been wearing the day he gave Arthur a key to the cabin.
A key he never gave back, now that Arthur thinks about it. Which is,
unfortunately, the perfect in to the conversation they need to have. He pulls
on the t-shirt before crouching in front of his messenger back to find his
keys.
Behind him, Eames starts in on his breakfast. "I'm shocked, Arthur. Not putting
up a fight about the shirt?"
Arthur can hear him crunching on a piece of toast, but can't turn back to look.
His hands are shaking, which makes getting the key off the ring difficult. Once
he does manage to get it off, he smooths his palms over the worn-soft shirt and
places the key on the table next to Eames' plate.
"Here, before I forget." Eames stills, mid-bite, gaze focused on the key. He
doesn't say anything for long moments, giving Arthur time to sit down, take a
healthy sip of orange juice. Arthur is several bites into his scrambled egg
whites when Eames finds his voice.
"You should keep that."
Arthur finishes chewing, hoping he can swallow his food around the lump in his
throat. "Why?" he asks, finally, voice sounding rougher than he means it to.
"Emergency parties, a place to hide from your mom. For when you come by for
Christmas break." He says it all with a thick dose of nonchalance, but the way
he doesn't look at Arthur as he speaks tells Arthur all he needs to know, and
it's a struggle for Arthur to not let his smile get out of hand.
It's not a talk, not by a long shot, but it's close enough for now.
                                     : : :
Despite Arthur's protests, Eames insists on walking to campus with Arthur.
"It's a bloody gorgeous day out," he insists, walking a little behind Arthur.
"And since I'm going to be spending most of it trapped in a car--"
"A convertible," Arthur butts in.
"--a car, I want to enjoy this morning. If you're ashamed to be seen with me,
though, well that's another story. Run along then." He makes a shooing motion
with his hand.
"You know I'm not," Arthur hisses, slowing his pace to match Eames'. They stay
side-by-side, navigating together through the crowds of New Yorkers. The brush
of their arms, the sudden tangle of their fingers, makes Arthur shiver. Walking
hand-in-hand isn't something they've done, not really something they're doing
now, but their closeness, the way it's so obvious that they're together (Arthur
hopes), yet no one is sparing them a second glance, makes Arthur grin and grin
all the way to Washington Square.
Eames catches Arthur's hand, then, slotting their fingers together to tug him
close. Before Arthur can ask what's wrong, Eames kisses his parted lips,
lingering at the corner of his mouth. "Make sure to do all your homework," he
says, quiet, into the shell of Arthur's ear, kissing him there.
"And eat all your vegetables." Another kiss, over Arthur's pulse.
"Sleep is important, so be in bed by eleven." Another kiss on the crest of
Arthur's cheek, making Arthur's eyes fall closed.
"But above all, have fun." He disentangles his hand from Arthur's, uses it
instead to cup Arthur's head and tip it back for another kiss. It's soft and
deep and wet and perfect, and Arthur doesn't want it to stop.
Of course, it does; the best ones always do. Eames pulls back and Arthur hooks
a finger through a belt loop, keeping Eames close. He has a million things he
wants to say, a million things he should say, but for the first time, his brain
betrays him and all he can do is stare.
Eames smiles, knowing, and wraps warm fingers around Arthur's wrist to guide it
away. "Winter break, yeah?"
Arthur nods, throat tight. "Winter break."
"Brilliant." Eames kisses him one last time, lingering just a bit, letting
Arthur breathe in the scent of him, then turns and walks back the way they
came.
Arthur knows it makes him a bit of a sap, but he can't help staring at Eames'
back until Eames is nothing more than a speck in the crowd. And if it's even
sappier for Arthur to start counting down the days until winter break in his
head? Well, he's okay with that, too.
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