Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3553757.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Inception_(2010)
  Relationship:
      Arthur/Eames_(Inception)
  Character:
      Arthur_(Inception), Eames_(Inception)
  Additional Tags:
      Homelessness, Established_Relationship, Implied/Referenced_Underage
      Drinking, References_to_Underage_Drug_Addiction, Implied/Referenced
      Underage_Prostitution, Reference_to_Past_Domestic_Violence, Toxic
      Environments, Fluff_and_Hurt/Comfort, Soulmates, Prompt_Fill
  Series:
      Part 17 of Cigar_Box
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-03-18 Words: 5786
****** Molar ******
by grizzly_bear_bane
Summary
     Arthur has a bad toothache and the best birthday.
Notes
     Thanks for the prompt, Xenrae!
      
     Takes place after Calcaneum
See the end of the work for more notes
 
If I was a flower growing wild and free,
All I’d want is you to be my sweet honey bee.
And if I was a tree growing tall and green,
All I’d want is you to shade me and be my leaves.
—Barry Louis Polisar, “All I Want is You”
 
++
+
 
More blight is burning today.
It’s as common as sunlight itself. Arthur doesn’t even rise from the grass at
the smell of smoke to see which crumbling house is burning. It’s constant, the
sound of sirens and the smoke rising to the bright blue sky. A clash, between
the homeless and the drug-trapped looking for an abandoned house to squat in
and call home, and the folks who still think the neighborhood’s worth saving.
It’s a war Arthur’s never been a part of. Just an onlooker. He’s jealous of
both sides, really. The folks getting burned out have shelter, even if
temporary. Eames won’t risk a rotted ceiling collapsing over their heads, so
they sleep under the stars or the overpass, waiting for the DEA to lose
interest in Yusuf and his apartment complex. Those folks getting burned out
also have drugs. And the homeowners burning them out? They have homes. Lucky,
lucky, lucky.
Arthur’s stomach is growling when the firetrucks’ sirens blare as they pass by,
heading eastward.
On his back in the overgrown park, his feet planted in soft soil, he crosses
his legs to count tick bites and watches one scuttling, the little black dot of
a bug looking for a home itself somewhere on his thigh before he plucks it off.
He thinks it lands on one of the pretty yellow flowers that surround him. Their
golden petals drink in the sun as they lean into him, swaying in the May
breeze, like he’s curled up in a casket made of a wild garden. He reaches up
for one and can’t seem to keep it caught in his grasp.
"So fucking drunk," he mutters to the sky. "This is a real grave," he sighs,
before laughing at himself, because Eames really might murder him for drinking
the last of their alcohol. Again.
Can’t be helped now. At least Arthur’s mouth isn’t aching as much. He can’t
hustle with that pain. Granted, he can’t work so drunk that he can’t move
either, but he’ll take an empty 40oz malt liquor bottle and a drunken day spent
lying in a ghost garden over an angry wisdom tooth any day. He hasn’t been this
drunk since the tooth was pulled, just buzzed and sleeping as the weeks go by.
He’s missed this. Like a slow-motion, underwater high compared to coke’s roller
coaster.
"Oi? Chipmunk." Eames frowns down at him as he approaches, wading through the
grass. "How the fuck did you end up over here?"
Arthur laughs. “The wind blew me over here. Lie with me. It’s so pretty.”
"Fuck no. You’re getting sunburned."
Arthur hums, arching his back teasingly as he slurs. “A tan.”
"A problem. Come on, kitty cat.”
Arthur moans angrily when he’s picked up, his vision swimming and his brain
floating. “Nooo, Eames. I hate that overpass. It’s too loud and it smells like
a gas station.
"We’re not going there. Someplace better for now. Did you leave your bag?"
Eames searches around for it with Arthur still hoisted on his shoulder.
"It’s over by the tree."
"What tree? The ones all the way over across the fucking street?"
"I don’t know. I’m upside down. Stop moving, Eames."
He’s lain down in a new patch of grass, moaning as Eames stomps away to search
the trees. He’s on his way back with the bag when Arthur’s head stops fighting
for control over his stomach.
Eames chuckles at him, completely smug. “Oh Arthur. You let the ice melt in the
pack again, didn’t you?”
Arthur can only moan in response, his stomach turning again.
"So you drank instead? And is it working this time?" At Arthur’s groan, Eames
takes his arm careful to sit him up, brushing his hair back. He sighs, annoyed
but still patient. "Alright, he sighs, "I’ll stop nagging. Let’s try the ice
again."
+
 
Arthur wakes up laying on a hard, unforgiving surface as the sun’s setting
behind heavy clouds.
He groans under the weight of his headache, confused and wondering how he ended
up back at the overpass until he remembers Eames taking him out of the park.
Only, the ground’s not rough, crumbling gravel or hot from baking under the
sun. It’s cold flat concrete. And the roar of cars and trucks is also absent.
It’s quiet. Arthur blinks open his eyes and sees nothing but a trail of ants
marching over worn-down pavement. A parking garage. Or yet another abandoned
marvel of architecture from some decade or century Arthur knows nothing about
that was turned into an open-air parking garage, with its colorful painted
walls and ceiling stripped away to the concrete, and then further abandoned.
When he sighs, a plume of dust blows away from the pavement like a wave,
covering a patch of unlucky ants in it’s path.
Up on his elbows, he gathers that he’d been passed out on their sleeping bag
but had rolled over off of it. The sandwich bag of ice is melted again.
Groaning, he sits up against the wall with a wince and brushes the dust and
dirt off his clothes, not at all surprised to see that Eames isn’t wherever
here is. Arthur rests his head on his backpack, rubbing his aching jaw. He
tries to count drops of water leaking through the holes in the old ceiling as
the clouds open, and throws pebbles into the growing puddles under the huge,
empty windows. Anything to take his mind off the pain, to keep him from braving
the downpour to find someone who could help him make that pain go away.
Just one oxy and at least for today, he’ll be okay and he’ll sleep himself one
day closer to healing, but just one pill and he might end up with a brand new
craving - “dependence” as Eames calls it - in his belly.
He’s ignoring a stream of pained tears on his cheeks by the time Eames hops
through the window, soaking wet.
"Baby? What happened?" Eames lowers the near empty plastic bag from a
convenience store and his cup from a fast food place at his feet as he glares
at the forgotten sandwich bag. "It didn’t work?"
As Eames changes into dry clothes, Arthur shrugs, muttering, “I don’t know.” He
closes his eyes as Eames gets comfortable beside him, a little less irritable
under the arm Eames drapes over his side.
"Well, I’ve got some more, babe. Chin up. Let’s have a look at those teeth."
Arthur digs his nails into Eames’ leg when Eames touches his cheek. “Is it
okay?”
"Oh, it’s terrible! All green and black!"
"What?!"
"I’m kidding, baby. Relax. It looks fine, but your poor cheek needs more ice."
"I’m sick of ice."
"Hush, you stubborn brat," Eames whispers, pouring the ice from the cup into
another little bag. He’s gentle pressing it to Arthur’s cheek and holds it for
him as the sky rumbles and lightning flashes.
+
 
Arthur expects to celebrate his seventeenth birthday alone, with a jaw that’s
still sore after two more weeks, and with a rolled joint with no lighter.
So he spends the morning sleeping and in the afternoon he cleans out their
backpacks, refolding their clothes, checking their dwindling food stock, and
counts their money. Eight-hundred-and-sixty bucks. All of it is Eames’. Should
have been an even eleven, but an aching tooth doesn’t pull itself, not even on
the streets.
A thought creeps into his head again as a car with a loud stereo drives slowly
by. He…could…take a hundred from this envelop and buy himself a birthday gift
in a little baggie, spend the rest of the day fucking to make it all back
before Eames returns… or he could not be an idiot on his birthday. He stuffs
the money back into the bottom of Eames’ backpack and takes out his list of
reasons why getting high is off-limits, with Eames’ name at the top of those
four bullet points.
With his tasks complete, he takes a plastic bucket with him down the street to
a row of houses overshadowed by the crumbling ones across it. He crouches low
on the side of one house, petting the dog that lives with that family as he
steals water out of the garden hose spigot. The rottweiler lies his head on
Arthur’s lap and licks his palm the way Yusuf’s dog used to when Trigger was
Arthur and Eames’ puppy.
But he refuses to let his sadness crush him. Not today, not for another day of
clear skies and a bucket of clean water.
In the garage, he brushes his teeth with care and flosses, then strips and
soaps up on his knees in a beam of warm sunlight. He’s dumping the last of the
water on his head when it hits him that only one year now stands between him
and the end of his years-long countdown. Just twelve months and he and Eames
won’t have to hide from shelters and social workers anymore. It might be the
best present he gets today.
Eames startles him with a whistle. “Naked and wet,” he purrs, sitting on the
window. “You sure it’s your birthday and not mine?”
Arthur laughs, blushing when Eames tugs his hair back to kiss his forehead and
cheek. He gets clothed in Eames’ baby blue tank and the only shorts Arthur has
left. A bright purple flower with the softest petals is tucked behind his ear.
He catches Eames for a kiss, smiling in spite of the ache. “You’re here.”
"You thought I’d be out slinging and shooting on your birthday? What do you
take me for, huh?" He pulls Arthur into a tight hug for more kisses on his
face. "But I have been working hard lately. Wanted today to be special. I’ve
got a present for you."
Seeing Eames’ earnest expression makes Arthur’s heart leap. If this time spent
in his arms is that gift, he’ll gladly take it. He’s surprised when Eames
hurries to his feet and makes for the window again.
Arthur’s toweling his hair with a shirt when he hears Eames’ grunt followed by
a clatter and rolling wheels.
Eames comes back with a green bicycle and the biggest smile Arthur’s ever seen
on him. “Saw this bad boy outside the mini-mart when I was ‘borrowing’ a few
cupcakes for us and the bottled coffees you’re obsessed with. What do you
think?” He rings the little bell on the handle. It rings in the quiet summer
air, pinging off the garage walls and cracked ceiling. “We’ll have to paint it,
though. Get rid of the serial number, but… Arthur?”
Arthur blinks at it, standing. Nine years ago, sitting in the park with his
aunt, he’d cried on her shoulder. He’d wanted a bike for his birthday, the same
bike every boy his age had wanted and gotten, but his father had been fired
from the repair shop where he’d worked. They couldn’t afford it. So she’d told
him to wait, to save up, to ask for one again when his next birthday came
around. But he’d never had the chance.
"Arthur?"
He feels like his heart is gone, with just a hole dug out, empty like this
parking garage. 
"Baby?"
Arthur turns his back, hugging himself. “I’m not…twelve, Eames. What the hell
am I going to do with a stupid bike?”
Eames snorts. “Kitty cat, nobody’s ever too old for…” He grins. “You have no
idea how to ride a bike, do you?”
A blush covers his cheeks and ears. "I don’t want it, Eames. Take it back."
"Why? It’s a fucking bike! With wheels! For transportation! You can go to the
store, the clinic, the library! Anywhere!"
"Eames, I just don’t…" He stares up at the ceiling, willing away memories of a
former life as Eames gets on the bike and circles him with it, unconsciously
taunting him. "Cut it out."
Eames squeezes the breaks on the handle, frowning. “What’s the matter with you?
You still in pain?” He frowns deeper when Arthur doesn’t respond. “Come on,
baby boy. It’s fun. Easy. I’ll teach you.”
Arthur’s gaze is skeptical when he looks at him, his eyes burning. “Yeah?”
"Yes! I want to." Eames reaches for the knot in Arthur’s shorts to pull him
closer. He smiles, seeing Arthur eye the bike like it has rabies. "Get your
butt up here. Come on."
He stares from Eames to the bike for a long time before nodding, content to
give it a shot since he really has always wanted this.
Eames slips off for Arthur to get on the narrow seat. “This feels weird on my
crotch, Eames.”
Again Eames snorts. “You’re free-balling! That’s your fault,” he teases, almost
causing Arthur to fall over with the bike when he tickles into the leg opening
on Arthur's short with a finger, catching Arthur’s sensitive spot. 
“Eames!”
“Okay, okay, enough dicking around. Get your feet on the peddles.” 
It’s scarier than Arthur thought it’d be. His heart seizes every time Eames
looks like he’s going to take his hand off the handle and his back. Eames is
surprisingly patient as well, making it easy for Arthur to forget that he’s
trying to balance on two wheels over rough concrete—until Eames lets go without
warning.
And maybe it’s not even Eames’ fault that Arthur falls. It’s Arthur who
freezes, his feet off the peddles the second his balance wavers. Either way, he
earns a scrape on his knee and a nastier one on his elbow. 
He doesn’t even notice it at first with his hands clamped on his cheeks where
the ghost of his pulled tooth lights up in pain. “You’re right, Eames, a bike
is just wonderful. This is an excellent birthday present.”
“I’m sorry, baby.” Eames is quick to untangle him from the bike. His kiss makes
Arthur’s cheek sting… a little less. He kisses and rubs Arthur’s scrapes
too. “Now, quit being a whiny shit and get up.”
“Again?”
“Yeah! I stole this thing for you.” He gets on the bike himself before offering
his hand. “Don’t let it kick your ass that quick. Come on.” 
Arthur tells himself that he’s obliging begrudgingly, against his will,
barefoot as he stands on Eames’ sneakers and perches flush against Eames’ lap.
And it’s no less terrifying when Eames starts to peddle under him, an arm
wrapped snug, protectively around his waist as they move slowly forward, but as
Eames guides the bike in a circle, more and more steady, it’s not so bad.
"Take the handles, love."
The bike comes screeching to a halt when Eames moves his feet from under
Arthur, but he tells him to peddle as well once Arthur at last gets the
stirring down.
"Eames," Arthur mutters, nervous and quiet in the empty space, "this is stupid.
I still can’t balance."
"Hush, Tiny Tit, I got you. Just keep moving your legs."
He gets a slap on his thigh for complaining again, but he listens, his grip
white knuckled on the handles as he creeps the bike in the same circle Eames
has made, mindful of Eames’ feet tiptoeing along the back wheel to keep them
steady.
Eames squeezes his waist, smiling against the back of his shoulder where the
tank’s strap as fallen. “Better, kitty cat. Faster now. That’s it.” His feet
lift a little further away from the ground as Arthur completes a wider circle.
His hands rest on Arthur’s hips in an easy hold.
Arthur realizes that he’s smiling, peddling and balancing them on his own when
he’s startled by a stray cat chasing a mouse along the wall closest to them.
"Easy,” Eames shouts too late, “easy! Break!"
Eames takes the brunt of their crash, grunting with Arthur and bike on top of
him.
Arthur scrambles up, pushing the bike off quickly but carefully. He makes sure
to lower the kick stand and checks it for damage first. He’s wide eyed and
blushing when he helps Eames to sit up. In his lap, Arthur takes his face in
hand, holding in his laughter at Eames’ grimace. “I’m so sorry, pop! Are you
okay?”
"Fine, fine,” he huffs, “but you are never chauffeuring me anywhere again,
Arthur. You are so fired.”
"Oh, get off my ass! It was my first time!" He’s smiling, cooing down at
Eames. “I’m sorry. Let me kiss all your booboos.”
Eames chuckles, tilting his face for Arthur to kiss a line from his completely
uninjured nose to his uninjured neck and shoulder. “My dick hurts. Will you
kiss that too, love?”
“Of course,” Arthur purrs, snaking a hand down to dip in Eames’ pants. He
smirks at Eames' wince as he squeezes his cock with more than a little too much
payback in that grip. “Of course, Mr. Eames. It’d be my pleasure to take care
of you. You deserve it.”
"Ow! Stop that." Eames’ groan is playful but still tinged with pain when he
bucks and rolls Arthur under him, letting his full weight rest on him. “And why
am I being abused? I did a lot of sweating and toiling to break the lock on
that bike for you.”
He’s tickling Arthur’s face and neck with his nose, making Arthur laugh as he
tries and fails to wiggle from under him. “Do we have to paint it? Green’s my
favorite color.”
“Yeah,” Eames drawls, nosing at Arthur’s jaw before kissing it, “but I don’t
want you getting in trouble. A little kid probably owned this bike, but that
doesn't mean he can't try to curb stomp you if he sees you riding it. How
about,” he pauses to bite Arthur’s neck and suck at the bruise blooming,
“red?” 
Arthur’s cheek is feeling angry now with how wide his smile is, but he can’t
help it, being petting and teased with more of Eames’ lips, teeth, and knuckles
dragging against his skin. “I like red too. A lot, but… I still don’t know how
to ride it by myself.”
“But you do know how to ride other things.”
“I do! It’s kinda hard though, when I’m being crushed.”
“Oh yes, it’s very hard, kitty cat.” Eames grinds his hips for emphasis,
growling.
Arthur's sure his whole face is red now, but still he rolls his eyes. “At least
get me to the sleeping bag first before your seduction gets totally out of
control.”
“A brat to the very last breath, you’ll be. Why, why, why did my heart ever get
latched onto you,” Eames laughs, headed for their corner.
Arthur means to run after him, but instead, he tries the bike again by himself,
tiptoeing his way to Eames like the peddles aren’t there. Wobbly and unsure, he
rides for a pace, then tiptoes more, then balances again for a bit further.  
“Well, look at you!” Eames is already stripping. His smile is so fond, the lust
in his eyes is an afterthought to Arthur. “Aren’t you happy now that
we’re both stubborn?”
“Yeah, yeah. You win. It’s not too bad.” Arthur’s in the middle of a tight
circle around Eames, watching the wheels and chain turn, when he’s caught
around the waist and pulled off the bike. “But now you won’t even let me play
with it!”
Eames grins, tumbling down with him. “No,” he says sheepishly, rubbing Arthur's
stomach under his shirt. “I want to play with you now.”
“You think riding you instead might help with my balance?”
“Oh, totally, pet.”
Arthur hums into his kiss, still smiling as he lifts his hips for Eames to drag
off his shorts. The sleeping bag is warm and thick under him. Eames’ hands
sweep over his skin roughly, but his kiss is ever so careful, delicate even as
he dodges Arthur’s sore cheek. When the breeze rolls in, passing from one wall
of windows to the other side, it tickles Arthur’s skin, cooling his sweat under
Eames’ heat. He shivers, his nipples hard against Eames’ chest.
“Thank you,” he manages to whisper to Eames’ neck, feeling his adam’s apple bob
when Eames swallows. 
“’Course, baby.” Eames drags his lips over a nub before catching it with his
teeth on his way down to Arthur’s stomach. The forming scabs on Arthur’s knee
burn under Eames’ hand when he spreads Arthur’s legs. “Anything for you.”
Arthur closes his eyes, taken away from the patch of an old Ford ad he sees
outside the window when he feels Eames’ breath hot on his navel. His mouth is
even more so when it takes Arthur in. “Eames… you…” On the tip of his tongue,
he means to tell him that he doesn’t have to spoil him with that mouth. Even
after years of this spoiling, it’s still a thrill for him to just... take what
Eames’ loves to give him, to believe as Eames believes that his body is good,
pleasurable, worthy of that pleasure. “Yes...” He gasps when Eames hums his
agreement, his throat tight on Arthur's crown. The sound vibrates down his cock
and balls, to his twitching hole under Eames’ thumb. He moans, a new wave of
deep arousal overtaking him when Eames hooks his legs over his broad shoulders.
He could doze like this, content on the sleeping bag with Eames all evening,
but Eames' teasing streak isn't over. Arthur decides to get even first.
"Oh!" Eames grunts, surprised when Arthur pushes him with his feet backwards
onto the sleeping bag. He gets a lapful of Arthur and a tongue past his lips.
There isn't much better on Earth than hearing Eames moan, or using him as a
mattress, or feeling those hands resting on his lower back. As he kisses down
Eames' chest, those big hands sweep up his back to cup his shoulders and run
through his hair.
Arthur hates sucking cock if it's not Eames'. Too vulnerable, too blindsided
with his face pressed to the lap of someone who has to pay for sex in order to
get it. But with Eames, there's no room for comparisons. It's thick and heavy
in his mouth, smooth on his tongue. The bitter scent of cigarettes and the
sweetness of spilled liquor fill his nose when he buries it in Eames' soft
bushy hair, his throat tight around Eames' intimidating crown. Even when it
gets to be the sloppiest head Arthur can give him, he loves it, if not for just
the chance to hear the funny sounds Eames can't help but make or to see his
goofy expressions. It puts a smile on Arthur's face every time. 
When he glances up, Eames' brow is furrowed, his face pained, and his fists
clenched in the sleeping bag as if Arthur's doing the unspeakable. He lets his
cock go, licking its underside with his eyes still on Eames' expression. He
sucks hard on the little patch of skin just below Eames' crown, smirking when
Eames' eyes nearly fall out of his head. He's quick to catch the fresh bead of
precome that sensitive spot always inspires. "You okay up there, pop?"
It takes Eames a long time to get his brain working, but even then, he's still
looking like smoke's going to come out of his ears. "Huh?" His dazed eyes
follow Arthur, watching him rise on his knees, his legs spread. His mouth goes
slack when Arthur shows him the packet of lube, deliberate as he tears it open
with his teeth and wets his fingers. Eames swallows hard, propping himself up
on his elbows to see Arthur lift his own cock and balls and dip his hand back,
his wrist visibly gyrating between his legs, Eames' only hint that Arthur's
using those fingers to slick himself.
"You make my balls hurt, Arthur," is all Eames can manage at first, swallowing
again. 
"I love you too, Mr. Eames," he whispers, still stretching himself as he moves
over Eames' legs. He slicks Eames quickly. "And we're keeping the bike green."
Eames' groan and gasp make it easier to take him in. Arthur hovers over his
lap, holding just the head inside him, breathing through that burn. It hurts.
It always hurts, but it's good with Eames' hands bruising his hips and thighs
in a touch wavering between incontrollable lust and care. "Yes... yes,
darling." He groans again, his grip tighter still when Arthur relaxes more.
"Green. Perfect."
Arthur sinks slowly down, working him in deeper. "Maybe a darker green?" 
"Oh absolutely, baby. Anything you want. Just keep rocking like that."
"Like this?" Arthur plants his feet and keeps his legs wide, a hand behind him
for support and the other petting his soft cock, stroking some life back into
it as he rocks himself slowly. He finds a good, steady rhythm, pushing his body
to play along until the last of Eames slips inside him, making him gasp.
Rocking harder, Eames' girth presses his spot, rubbing and sliding as he bucks
under him. Arthur gets both hands planted behind him, a smirk returning, and
starts to bounce on Eames, drawing a moan from them both. "How's my riding now?
Better?"
"Jesus Christ, Arthur!"
"And my balance?"
Eames' groan sends a shiver up his spine. "You fucking tease. You fucking awful
little shit!"
"Yeah," Arthur sighs, angling his legs and arching his back so Eames can see
his cock swallowed, see the blush that's blooming deep between Arthur's legs
and ass as he bounces harder, quicker. He bites his lip to muffle himself,
focused on the sounds Eames' makes. He's singing in his own deep and graveled
way for Arthur, his pleasure as always shining bright and bare for Arthur to
see. 
+
 
They're still both catching their breath when they redress, Eames in his boxers
and Arthur in Eames' shirt. 
Arthur moans as he covers Eames again, sated and sore. 
Eames smirks, his chest shaking under Arthur as he laughs. “So you like the
bike?”
"I love the bike. It’s…" He sighs, picking at a hole in the baggy shirt. "It’s
perfect."
"Oh, so you love it now that it’s nearly cracked my head open? Well, that’s
fantastic."
Arthur kisses him sweetly, cradling Eames’ head. Eames smiles up at him as he
tucks the flower behind Arthur’s ear again. “Thank you, Eames.” 
“And it’s just the beginning.” Eames hums, folding his arms back to pillow his
head. His eyes on the ceiling, he speaks softly, turning his face this way and
that for Arthur to shower him with more kisses. “Yusuf’s got a big job for me.
Really big. Really…financially big.” He meets Arthur’s curious gaze. “Big
enough to get us a car.”
Arthur sits up abruptly, as if Eames is about to catch fire. “What? Don’t say
that.”
“I’m serious.”
Arthur stutters, shocked. “You were serious the last time.”
Eames gets up on his elbows, frowning. “I’m sure this time. We’ve pinched our
pennies to a fault, babe. This job will take us the rest of the way
there. Out of this city.”
A car. Shelter, protection, transportation… An escape. 
The same cat and mouse scampering in another corner of the space is the only
sound for a long time until another fire truck passes by. Arthur can’t meet
Eames’ eyes when he sits up to hold Arthur in his lap. The idea, after all this
time and so many setbacks, hiccups… believing in this kind of hope, letting it
take root inside him, its dangerous.
In an instant, their spirits wither. "Well, Arthur boy, you don't have to look
so excited."
"I'm just... Are you sure?"
“You don’t have to get your hopes yet if you don’t want to,” Eames tries again,
rubbing Arthur’s back under his shirt, “but… I know you’re feeling a bit better
and it’s been a while since you’ve had a relapse. I know what that means, what
you’re thinking. I don’t want you out on those streets anymore,” he stresses,
his voice trembling now, his grip tight on the backs of Arthur’s arms to regain
his attention. “I don’t want you to have to work another day in your life,
Arthur. Not like that, not… No.”
Arthur’s shaking his head, still looking away when he wipes his eyes and blinks
them back into focus. “It’s too dangerous. We need a safety net.”
“Not with your body, Arthur, please not anymore.”
Arthur breaks free from him and stands, needing air. He can still feel their
sex lingering on him, in him, but his heart is heavy, his stomach twisting in
knots, from anxiety he hasn't felt for a long time now. It builds in him like
pressure in a soda can. 
“Arthur, talk to me. Why the bloody fuck are you upset again? Do you want to
keep hustling? Do I have to get shot again? Do you?”
“You left me.” It tumbles out of his mouth and hangs in the air around them,
choking them both. 
Eames’ shoulders sink. “What?”
“You left me,” Arthur says again, trembling now as he fumbles with the shirt's
hem, hating himself for not being able to keep the pressure in anymore, but
it’s been months, years perhaps, since he’s let Eames in this deep and now he
can’t stop. “You’ve left me…three times already. Soon as things go bad, you
leave me. First in the hospital and then…when you…almost… hit me, and then you
were shot and it almost…” His fists ball at his side as Eames rushes to his
feet. He steps back from him, suddenly afraid behind the tears welling in his
eyes, like he’s still a child after all this time. The frustration only makes
him want to cry more but he’s so sick of crying. 
Eames’ hands are out, reaching for him but not touching as he stares,
dumbfounded. “I… You… I’m sorry. My god, I’m sorry, Arthur. You know that. Why
would you… I thought that we were working it out. I thought we were good.”
Arthur’s heart drops, shattering when it hits the bottom of his stomach it
feels, seeing Eames’ broken expression. “We are. And I love you, but… I’m just
fucking scared, okay? What if I fuck up really bad and you leave again and… and
you don’t come back? What if you leave and try to come back but can’t, like in
Chicago?” He swallows down his growing panic, but his hands can’t stop shaking
in front of him like he’s got their whole future held so precariously in his
palms. “And what if we make it for a while and start to relax and then the
bottom falls out again we’re not able to handle it? I’m scared. A car will
change our lives, Eames.” 
“And you don’t have to be afraid of that, boy,” Eames whispers close, cupping
Arthur’s face, thumbs wiping at the tears on his cheeks. “We’ll leave this
place. You’ll see. We can start over. I know we can. In some city where no one
knows us, where I can find work and support us, baby, and you won’t ever have
to worry about men, or a relapse, or another positive test ever again… I just
need you to trust the plan, even if you still can’t trust me yet.”
Arthur’s eyes close with those words, reaching for Eames so he can hide in his
arms, his face pressed to his neck. If only the world were built of this: more
of broad shoulders to rest on and strong arms to cover him, instead of the
fists attached to them or the fingers that pull triggers and kill. “I want us
to be free… so bad.”
“We’re close. I’m telling you.” He cups Arthur’s cheeks again. “We’ll be free.”
His voice breaks when he laughs. “With your bike in the boot, gas in the tank,
and nothing but road in front of us.” He wipes his own eyes before picking
Arthur up and carrying him in a circle. “Wherever you want to go. Anywhere that
you can think of!” 
He looks at the bike and at the sleeping bag and their things and the cupcakes
smushed under the bottles of coffee in the store bag.Arthur rests his chin in
Eames’ hair, arms wrapped tight around his neck, thinking deep down that he
owes Eames this, to believe in his dream, even if it speaks of a future beyond
Arthur's sight. “California."
Eames' relief is tangible. "Okay. I'd like that. It's be great for us."
"We could find my aunt?"
"Sure!"
"She’d take us in," Arthur says, nodding, feeling more grounded now. "I know
she would. I could get a job being a batista.”
Eames snorts, looking more like himself again too. “A barista?” 
Arthur's cheeks flush. “Yeah, yeah.” 
“You think she’ll like me?”
Arthur leans back a little to meet his eyes, but he can’t speak at first. He
remembers his aunt and mother fighting over his father. He can't imagine what
Eames would look like to her. “Um...”
Eames' brow shoots up teasingly. “No, then.”
“Yes! I-I think so!”
“No.”
“Yeah…" Arthur wrinkles his nose as Eames chuckles up at him. "No. But she
loves me and that’s all that matters. She’ll help us soon as we find her.”
“That works for me. So long as you’re happy.”
Arthur's feet find the floor again. His happy to get all of Eames' kisses, but
his mind is still tossing and tripping over a growing list of 'what if's' and
'maybes'. He's always wanted a bike and now he's got one, but this, is much,
much more. A chance, at long last, of a life. A good one, even though it's hard
at seventeen to even know what a good life would look like for him and Eames,
but it would be different, better than what they have here. 
Inside, Arthur feels his own hope taking root and sprouting. He laces his
fingers with Eames', a small smile on his lips. Some day his little hope will
grow tall, into a giant tree. A tree that will bear fruits and flowers, just
like Eames'. "Okay. Get us a car, Eames."
Eames rummages in the plastic bag and pulls out the bottles of coffee, tearing
the plastic off it with his teeth. He toasts Arthur playfully, but his eyes are
keen, his dream still building in his head. "To California, kitty cat."
Arthur's smile grows, feed by Eames' soft kiss. "To California."
++
+
 
End.
End Notes
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