Fic: "Dude," (6/7) Inception, Robert/Yusuf, Arthur/Eames, NC-17
School starts next week. Hopefully before then I'll have finished "Dude" and be working exclusively on "Fear, Itself."
Dude (6/7)
Author:
_beetle_
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Robert/Yusuf, Arthur/Eames
Rating: Soft NC-17
Word Count: Approx. 6400
Disclaimer: Not stealing, just appreciating.
Notes: An AU where the Inception team works at a men's magazine called Dude. Previous parts hold court here.
Summary: Written for the
inception_kink prompt: Yusuf is working his first job out of college as a "fact checker" for a semi-sleazy men's magazine; doomed to spend his days researching protein bars and celebrity bra sizes. Robert Fischer is his boss whom he has a million good reasons to hate. So why doesn't he?
“Uh . . . do you know that guy?”
Yusuf looks over at Robert and fights a blush. “Um, yeah . . . he-“
“Wait-doesn’t he work at Dude?” Robert squints out the window at Eames, who’s still waving and grinning. “The English guy who writes that sex advice column?”
“Ask Eames, and yes.” Yusuf sighs. “This would be Eames.”
“Ah.” Robert looks befuddled for a moment then his face closes off so suddenly, it’s startling. “Should I be jealous?”
Yusuf can only stare for a moment. Then he snorts. “Of Eames? You’re kidding, right?”
That closed-off look doesn’t change one iota and Yusuf sighs again. “No, you don’t. And if you’re going to get jealous over every guy I’m friends with, Robert, then you’re going to wind up being jealous of, like, at least two guys.”
Robert blinks then cracks a smile. Then he chuckles, his eyes warming and his face losing that rigid, unreadable look. When he leans in to kiss Yusuf, it’s long and possessive. The sort of kiss that ends with them both trying to catch their breath and regain their wits.
“I don’t think he’s going to go away,” Robert breathes as Eames starts tapping on the window again. Yusuf, momentarily discombobulated, says: “Who go where?”
“Your friend, Eames.” Robert nods at the window and Yusuf looks back over his shoulder. “He’s pretty persistent.”
“Yes, he certainly is,” Yusuf says flatly, glaring out the window. Eames merely grins bigger and waves again, gesturing for Yusuf to roll down the window. “And you’re right. He’s not going anywhere till he’s had his say.”
“I thought not.” Robert is the one to sigh, this time then he sits up straight in his seat. His arm, however, doesn’t relinquish the back of the passenger side seat.
“Mood? Effectively ruined,” Yusuf mutters, fumbling at the little control panel set in the door before finding the power window button.
When the window slides smoothly down, Eames puts his hand on his hips and rocks back and forth a little.
“Hullo, darling,” he says brightly, leaning down to look into the car, his eyes seeking and almost immediately finding Robert’s. “Mr. Fischer.”
“Mr. Eames.” Robert says rather dryly, his face gone unreadable again. “Fancy meeting you, here, too.”
“Well, Yusuf’s a mate of mine, and I just wanted to check in on him. Touch base as you Americans like to say.” Eames laughs, a rich, low party-laugh in which neither Yusuf nor Robert join him.
In fact, when all they do is stare at him-Yusuf pleading with his eyes for Eames to take the hint and make himself scarce-Eames laughs again, a bit uncomfortably, this time, and leans on the roof of the Phantom. He peers intently into the car, cataloguing the interior.
“Bloody gorgeous automobile,” he notes, and Robert nods.
“Thanks.”
And there the conversation falls flat.
After exactly twenty-seven seconds of awkward silence, Yusuf finally groans and cuts to the chase. “Eames, why are you here?”
The used car-salesman smile greets Yusuf. “Why, to check in on you, as I’ve said. What else are friends for?”
“Cock-blocking, apparently,” Robert says ruefully, under his breath, and they both look at him, both in surprise. Robert gazes back, unruffled. “What? Clearly that’s your intention, right?”
“Well-“ Eames clears his throat, but doesn’t bother lying.
“So, the question becomes: Why, exactly, are you cock-blocking Yusuf-not to mention me.” Robert’s head tilts in seemingly mild curiosity, but his eyes are hard. “Feel free to explain at any moment.”
Eames looks absolutely gobsmacked, an expression Yusuf has never and never thought he’d see on that knowing, self-assured face. But the expression clears quickly enough, leaving behind a grim, determined look in its wake.
“Honestly, Mr. Fischer?” Eames quirks an eyebrow. “I’m here to make certain my good friend here doesn’t make a terrible mistake.”
Robert raises an eyebrow, himself. “And what mistake would that be?”
“Fucking you, of course.” Eames says mildly, and it’s a startling enough admission that Robert’s and Yusuf’s mouth drops open. “See, Yusuf is quite a wonderful person. Anyone would be lucky to have him in their life in any capacity, and that’s something I’m not certain you realize-”
“Don’t tell me what I don’t realize, Mr. Eames,” Robert interrupts tersely, his tone arctic, even as his hand, warm and reassuring, comes to rest on Yusuf’s knee. It’s a gesture Eames’s keen eyes don’t miss.
“-and while I’m sure you’re attracted to him, and maybe even finding yourself growing fond of him, there’s still the matter of your unfortunate track record to keep in the forefront of one’s mind.” Eames says, his voice turning as hard as Robert’s stony gaze. “You see, Yusuf isn’t anything like your usual type. He’s smart, funny, and genuine. He has a heart and it’s no doubt discarded all attempts at self-preservation while staring into your big blue eyes.”
“Eames!” Yusuf exclaims, his face aflame. He starts to roll up the window, but Robert stays his hand.
“No,” he says quietly, angrily. “Let him keep digging his own grave with his mouth.”
“Robert, no-Eames, please don’t say whatever you’re going to say next. I’m begging you. I’m an adult and I can look after my own heart.” Yusuf says defensively, his finger still hovering near the button to close the window.
“Is that so?” Eames’s gaze gentles as he looks at Yusuf. “Darling, don’t tell me you’re not already half in love with him.”
And here Yusuf had thought he couldn’t possibly turn any redder. “I-I-“
“What Yusuf and I may or may not feel for one another is none of your business.” Robert comes to Yusuf’s rescue, his hand coming back to rest on Yusuf’s knee.
“But I’ve made it my business, mate.” Eames says, his voice gone hard again. “I don’t want to see my friend get his heart broken just so you can have another notch on your very tasteful belt.”
Robert snorts. “It seems to me for all I don’t know how wonderful Yusuf is, you’re the one who doesn’t have any faith in his ability to not only attract a man’s interest, but to keep it,” he says, sneering. Hectic roses bloom in Eames’s cheeks.
“No, I just haven’t any faith that you aren’t a heartless, philandering bastard.”
“EAMES!” Yusuf yells, burying his face in his hands. “Oh, God, please shut up!”
“Or are you just pissed off that I got there first?” Robert demands, and Yusuf looks up and over at him, mouth dropping open in shock and offense.
“I beg your pardon? Got where, exactly?” he asks with stilted politeness, and Robert blushes, looking uncertain and darting his eyes everywhere but at Yusuf.
“Uh-“ he says, then loosens his already loose tie even further. “What I meant was-“
“Yes, what did you mean, Mr. Fischer?” Eames asks sweetly. Yusuf throws a quick glare at him then turns back to Robert.
“I just meant-“ Robert restates, but Yusuf’s too angry, all of a sudden, to let him finish.
“I know what you meant, Robert. You mean that even after what I told you, you’re still jealous!” Yusuf laughs mirthlessly. “What-now you think I’m a liar-or that I’m that fickle?”
“No, it’s not that-I just-“ Robert stammers, looking quite miserable, even as he finds the courage to meet Yusuf’s eyes. “This all came out the wrong way-“
“I’ll say it di-hang on, a moment-you’re jealous of me?” Eames asks, looking surprised. “Why on Earth would you be jealous of me?”
“Oh, please!” Robert snorts disdainfully. “I’m not jealous of you!”
“That’s right, Eames, he just thinks that if you took it into your head to chase after me, I’d just roll over and let you fuck me, isn’t that right, Robert?” Yusuf demands, scowling at Robert, who seems to shrink just a bit, wincing under Yusuf’s angry regard and Eames's smirking enjoyment.
“Darling, have you got the plot twisted,” he says to Robert, laughing. “My heart’s already spoken for.”
“Yeah? Well, it’s not your heart I’m worried about,” Robert huffs, crossing his arms like a tantrum-y child. “You strike me as the type who can’t keep it in his pants to save his life.”
Eames’s mouth drops open. “Well! I never-Yusuf, what on Earth do you see in this rude, pompous prick?”
“You’re calling me pompous? That’s rich!”
“Well, you’d know all about ‘rich,’ wouldn’t you? And damn little about anything else!”
Robert rolls his eyes. “Thus speaks the righteous voice of the proletariat . . . how much do you make per year, again?”
“Oh, a little less than what you spent tonight trying to impress Yusuf, I’d wager.” Eames retorts, which no doubt touches close to home for Robert, who’d not half an hour ago tipped a valet one thousand dollars.
“Our date is none of your business!” he huffs.
“And as I said before, I’m making it my business. And so help me, if you break Yusuf’s heart in the slightest, I’ll hunt you down and beat you to death with a shovel!”
Rolling his eyes again, Robert shakes his head. “Now, you’re giving me the Shovel Speech? Unbelievable! It sounds like a Watcher, but it talks like a Scoob!” he says in a falsely fascinated aside to no one in particular.
Eames gazes at Robert blankly. “What in the bloody hell are you on about, mate?”
“Oh, gee, Spike, I dunno.” Robert starts snickering-rather meanly-and the image of a child having a tantrum is further reinforced in Yusuf’s mind.
And Eames is hardly behaving any better, letting himself be baited, and baiting in turn.
Yusuf listens to them bicker for a minute-Robert throwing out Buffy-isms and Eames unwittingly throwing out Spike- and Giles-isms in response-until it feels as if his head’s going to explode. . . .
“SHUT UP!” he yells, and for a wonder, they both do. But Yusuf can’t seem to stop telling them to shut up, anyway. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”
And in the silence that follows, all that can be heard is Yusuf fumbling about the passenger side door control panel, once more. In a few seconds, the door is swinging open, causing Eames to jump back and Robert to reach out and grab Yusuf’s arm.
“Wait, Yusuf-“
“Bloody hell, Yusuf, what’s got into you?”
But Yusuf shakes his head and snatches his arm back, sliding out of the Phantom. “Thank you for a lovely evening, Robert. Good night, Eames.”
And with that, he shoulders past Eames, up to the front steps of his apartment building.
Once inside the vestibule, he leans on the door, trying to decide whether he’s upset or not that neither best friend nor not-quite-lover had come after him.
*
Twenty minutes later, dressed in his bedclothes of pajama bottoms and hole-y Dreamtheater t-shirt, Yusuf’s comfortable on his couch, nursing a Pibb Xtra, and watching a rerun of The New Adventures of Old Christine, when the intercom buzzer goes off.
And goes off.
And just to be extra awesome, goes off some more.
After ten minutes, Yusuf’s ready to tear his hair out. Ignoring the damn thing is no longer an option, since he can barely make out what the hell’s going on on his show over its insistent drone. And cranking up the volume on the television at this hour would just be inconsiderate to his neighbors. Maybe even as inconsiderate as leaning on someone’s buzzer at eleven-thirty at night.
Finally, Yusuf puts down his soda, turns off the television, and shuffles to the door. After a few moments of hesitation-he’s not certain whether he wants it to be Robert, Eames, or just some random prank by bored, unsupervised teenagers-he pushes the button: “Yes?”
“Yusuf, mate!”
Eames, it is, then.
Swallowing his disappointment, Yusuf heaves a sigh and pushes the button again. “It’s late, Eames. You can finish telling me you told me so, or whatever it is you want to say tomorrow morning, after ten, over the phone.”
“But you never check your phone, do you, darling?” Eames’s tinny, accusing voice sizzles out of the speaker like sexy bacon. “If you did, you’d know why I initially dropped by to see you.”
Yusuf rolls his eyes. “If this is about Robert-“
“Oh, not everything is about Robert, love, despite what the both of you like to think.” Eames laughs. “Listen, check your phone, and then you can decide whether to let me in.”
“Eames. . . .”
“I’m willing to wait here all night, Yusuf. I have to talk to someone about what’s happened.”
“What’s happened, Eames?” Yusuf asks, a twinge of worry coloring his lingering irritation. “Is everything alright?”
No answer.
“Eames?”
Still no answer.
“Goddamnit, Eames!”
Grumbling about annoying Englishmen, Yusuf shuffles off to his bedroom. Sitting on his dresser is his cellphone-which he should’ve plugged in to the charger as soon as he got home-and he picks it up.
And it’s true, he doesn’t check his voicemail or texts like he should, often not receiving messages for days after they were sent. He’s been getting better about it, but apparently not fast enough. According to the phone, Eames has been trying to reach him since eight twenty-eight p.m.
There are three voicemails and about five thousand text messages, but it’s the first text message that has Yusuf rushing back to the door, Robert forgotten for the moment.
He pushes the intercom button:
“You slept with Arthur?!”
No answer.
Yusuf rolls his eyes again. “I’m buzzing you up.”
“Right-o.”
Yusuf holds the buzzer for ten seconds then opens his door. He can hear Eames making his leisurely way up the three flights of stairs, whistling jauntily. Yusuf leans against the door frame, crosses his arms, and waits.
Soon enough, Eames is stepping onto the landing, grinning the wistful, contented grin of the come-stupid.
“Well, hell,” Yusuf says wonderingly. “You really did sleep with Arthur.”
That grin widens. “There was no sleep involved, mate.” Edging past Yusuf into the apartment, Eames immediately heads toward the kitchenette and the fridge like he’s been to Yusuf’s apartment a thousand times before. “Please tell me you have some sort of spirits available. I need some hair of the dog to stave off an epic hangover.”
Closing his door and locking it, Yusuf sighs. “Cabinet over the fridge. I’ve got some Bacardi 151.”
Eames glances over at Yusuf and makes a face. “Love, that’s not spirits. That’s bloody rocketship fuel!”
Rolling his eyes, Yusuf shuffles back to his couch and sits down. “Beggars can’t be choosers, Eames. It’s the 151 or Zima.”
“Augh!” Eames makes a disturbingly realistic gagging sound. “151, it is. Glasses-?”
“Cabinet above the sink.” Yusuf swings his legs up onto the couch and lays down. “Now stop stalling. What’s all this about you and Arthur making the beast with two backs?”
“All in due time, Dearest Yusuf, all in due time.” Eames slops generous amounts of on 151 in two glasses, caps the bottle then brings it and the glasses into Yusuf’s livingroom. He carefully places the whole kit and caboodle on the coffee table then parks himself at the other end of the couch, completely disregarding Yusuf’s feet.
“Jerk,” Yusuf mutters, pulling his feet out from under Eames’s ass and kicking him lightly in the hip for good measure. Eames catches Yusuf’s right foot, pulls it into his lap, and begins massaging it.
“Eames, what on Earth are you-holy mother of God . . . where did you learn this?” Yusuf moans happily, as tension and vague aches he didn’t even realize he had, in both calve and foot, reach a crescendo before suddenly draining away under Eames’s talented hands.
“One of my previous partners was training to be a reflexologist.” Eames says thoughtfully then laughs. “He used to practice on me all the time. I guess some of it stuck.”
“Bless him, then.”
Eames laughs again. “Not hardly. I caught him, er, practicing reflexology with one of his female classmates. And in my bed, no less.”
Yusuf’s eyebrows shoot up. “No way.”
“Oh, yes, way. Does it surprise you that the great repository of sexual knowledge lost his boyfriend to a tawdry, sexual infidelity?”
“Not hardly. Some men are just born to be unfaithful, I suppose,” Yusuf says, rather glumly, wondering if Robert is one of those guys. Maybe that's why he seems to think Yusuf is. “I mean, no matter how faithful they mean to be, some guys are just . . . incapable of being with just one person, right?”
Eames makes a noise that could be agreement.
“Anyway, he was a fool to cheat, and you’re well rid of him,” Yusuf declares, feeling a small stab of anger and defensiveness on behalf of the man who, in retrospect, has been the closest friend he’s ever had. “Men. Can't live with them, can't live without them. Though Lord knows I've tried. And failed.”
“Amen, sister.”
He and Yusuf glance at each other then grin. Then they start laughing. Yusuf’s laugh, however, turns into a relieved groan as Eames switches feet.
“Good God, but you’re tense tonight,” he notes kindly. “Not that I blame you, what with Robert Fischer tugging you in one direction-“
“Actually, the tugging had barely started before you interrupted,” Yusuf says, letting his head sink into a cushion and closing his eyes. He throws one arm over his eyes and sighs.
“-and me coming along and trying to tug you in another,” Eames finishes. “I apologize for that, by the way.”
When Yusuf peaks out from under his arm, Eames is looking at him solemnly. “Oh, yes. Unlike some billionaires who shall remain nameless, I can admit when I’m being a complete wanker.
“And I was being a wanker. But from the moment he pulled up and grew those octopus arms, I saw red. And not, as he insinuated, because I want you for myself. But because I care about you, and I don’t want to see you lose your heart to someone who won’t take care of it.”
“Eames-“ Yusuf covers his eyes again. “You’re the one who told me to sleep with him if I couldn’t resist!”
“And I was wrong to tell you that, Yusuf,” Eames says with a heavy sigh. “To some, sex means little more than getting off, but you’re not one of those people, are you? You can’t screw around without getting emotionally involved, can you?”
“Who says I can’t?”
“Alright, then, when was the last time you had sex, and were you in a steady relationship when it happened?”
Yusuf peeks out again. But now, Eames is staring at Yusuf’s foot, smiling that infuriating, knowing smile.
“That’s none of your business.”
“Which is all the answer I need,” Eames goes on cheerfully. “And all the reasons why I was afraid of what would happen if you slept with Robert Fischer.”
Yusuf frowns. “Was afraid?”
“Well.” Eames looks at Yusuf again, and his smile turns a bit rueful. “Would it surprise you to know I’ve had something of a change of heart?”
“About Robert? Yes. I might just have a stroke.” But glibness aside, Yusuf sits up a little on one elbow. “Have you really?”
Eames nods reluctantly, then adds: “Not completely, mind you. But I’m finding it hard to believe that any man who gets that jealous over who you’re fucking wants just a quick wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am. Though that kind of possessiveness so early in whatever his idea of a relationship is, is . . . worrying.”
Yusuf smiles a little. “I dunno . . . it's kind of flattering. Heh, he even got jealous when I told him about my childhood crush on Doogie Howser.”
“Who?”
Laughing, Yusuf shakes his head. “No one. You were saying?”
With one last squeeze, Eames lets go of Yusuf’s foot. “I was saying that maybe he’s so jealous and possessive because he’s never had a real relationship before. Or the potential for one. And he just doesn’t know how to trust it or you or the fact that if you didn’t want him, you wouldn’t be wasting your time stringing him along,” he muses, leaning forward to snag the glasses, one of which he passes to Yusuf, who takes it hesitantly, then throws caution to the wind. It’s not like he has to go to work in the morning. “You realize that I’m probably right, right? That dating this man is going to be like dating a teenager, in some ways. He’s going to make a lot of mistakes, some of them extremely hurtful. To the point that you may wish you’d never got involved with him. He clearly has trust issues and is a notorious control-freak. In short: he’s no Prince Charming. He’s an emotionally stunted man-child who has no idea how to handle falling in love and then simply being with someone.”
Yusuf sips at his rum, and doesn’t say anything till the generous glass is half empty and his mouth and throat burn. “Don’t you think I’ve realized all that? I may be half in love with the man, as you say, but that doesn’t mean I’m blind. Or that I’m willing to overlook his obvious flaws.”
Now Eames’s gaze turns keen and appraising. “Then what does it mean?”
“I don’t know, okay?” Yusuf blurts out, finishing the rest of his rum in one long, burning swallow. “All I know is it’s barely been one day, and I’m already thinking of my future-my life in terms of Robert Fischer, and what Robert will think or do. And even though I’ve tried, I can’t stop thinking about him and wanting him. I need to be with him, like you said, in every sense of the word, no matter the risk. I’m willing to live dangerously, so to speak, to have a chance with him." Yusuf shakes his head. "You think letting him fuck me will cause me to lose my heart?” He laughs, though it hurts his throat to do so, and makes his next words come out hoarse and pained. “It’s too late for that, Eames, don’t you understand? And even if I could change it . . . I wouldn’t. I’m drowning, and smiling as I go down.”
Eames’s keen look turns almost pitying. “Oh, my poor darling,” he says softly, putting his hand on Yusuf’s knee. “It’ll be alright. It’s clear that he already thinks more of you than he did of Taran Colby-“
“Which isn’t saying much.”
“-or any of the others. Whatever else he wants from you-love, loyalty, complete and utter fealty-he wants what's between you two to work. And while want means next to nothing when you don’t have the tools needed to get . . . it still counts for something.” Eames says, trying on a reassuring smile. Yusuf lays back into the cushion and puts his empty glass on the coffee table and his hands on his stomach.
“I don’t even know, anymore,” he says finally. “I mean, I know what I want: Robert. I know what I have to do to have him: be patient with him and trust him. I know what it could cost me to keep him: my heart, my pride, my self-respect. And I’ve made peace with having to walk that tightrope . . . as much peace as I can. I just . . . he overwhelms me. No matter what emotion he arouses in me, it’s the very Nth of that emotion. He doesn’t make me merely happy. He makes me incandescent with joy. He doesn’t merely make me annoyed. He makes me so angry that I have to get away from him before I explode. He doesn’t just make me horny. He makes me ache with wanting him, even though I know having him will only make the wanting worse. He. . . .”
“Overwhelms you,” Eames finishes for him, and Yusuf nods ruefully.
“I think . . . I think it’s a good thing you came along when you did, Eames. Everything was moving so fast, and . . . maybe he and I just need to take things slow for now.” Yusuf sighs, shaking his head. “Not that it'll make a difference.”
Eames shrugs. “It might not. But it’s worth a shot.”
"The problem is, when I'm around him . . . when he touches me . . . God, I've never wanted anyone so much." Yusuf sighs and hugs himself. "It's a little scary to want someone so badly."
"Love, if that's what this turns out to be, is a very scary prospect. Wonderful, but terrible, too." Eames pats Yusuf's knee kindly. "It co-opts one's heart, mind, and soul. One finds oneself living and breathing for someone else, until there's no 'me' anymore, just 'we' . . . it's quite ghastly."
"Yeah," Yusuf agrees, smiling a little, without realizing it.
They sit and lay in silence, respectively, Yusuf staring up at the ceiling, Eames polishing off his glassful and pouring another.
“Take my mind off of Robert. Tell me about you and Arthur,” Yusuf says absently. Eames snorts.
“What’s to tell, in light of your intense, whirlwind of a romance?"
Now Yusuf snorts. "At least you got laid. Was it everything you thought it'd be?"
"Mm. And more. He's hung like a bloody mule. Hurts every bloody step I take," Eames says smugly. Yusuf chuckles.
"Size queen."
Eames rolls his eyes. "Well, yes. But Arthur not only has the size, but he has the talent to use it. He wields that thing masterfully. Like it's bloody Excalibur."
"Nice." Yusuf wonders briefly if Robert's hung like a mule. Though he's no size queen, like Eames is, he does tend to prefer guys with girth, more so than length. And from his brief foray below Robert's belt, Yusuf has a feeling that he's going to be pleasantly surprised. "So is this Conor Eames's Big Happily Ever After?"
Eames shrugs again, looking broody for a moment. "Dunno, you tell me? I mean, it was just one night. One amazing, perfect fuck . . . well, several, actually. For all I know, Arthur's the king of such one night stands."
"Doubtful," Yusuf says thoughtfully. "He doesn't strike me as the sort to sport-fuck a guy then run. Whether he was drunk or not."
"Let's hope so," Eames sighs, knocking back his rum.
"Why don't you start from the beginning? How does someone, even you, go from obsessing in secret over shy, retiring, reclusive Arthur, to getting the Excalibur treatment from him?" Yusuf asks curiously. Eames looks sheepish for a moment, then squares his shoulders.
"Alcohol may have been involved. . . ."
"I'm not surprised."
"Listen, you, a drunk man speaks a sober man's mind."
"And apparently gets into other drunk men's pants." Yusuf grins. "Anyway, start from the beginning, and don't leave anything out."
"It shall be as my lord commands." Eames salutes Yusuf smartly, though his cheeks are faintly red. "Well, I was knocking off work a bit early today, when I caught Arthur doing the same. We literally ran into each other at the lift-“
“And had sex on the way to the lobby?”
“Who’s telling this story?” Eames asks sternly. Holding back a laugh, Yusuf sweeps out his hand in a grand gesture for Eames to continue.
“Right, then. So, we get to the lobby, neither of us saying so much as a word to each other. But as he steps out, I somehow grew a great, hairy pair of bollocks because I went after him and asked him if he’d like to join me for a quick scotch and soda at O’Flaherty’s. . . .”
*
By the time Eames finishes regaling Yusuf with tales of his and Arthur’s sexploits-and Yusuf’s still not certain, by the end, how they got from “a quick scotch and soda,” to “making the skies fall” in Eames’s condo-it’s nearly two a.m. A fact which is only brought to Yusuf’s attention when a thoroughly snockered Eames glances at his watch and swears.
“Well, not that it hasn’t been absolutely lovely chatting with you, darling, but Arthur may be awake and ready for round four,” he says, standing up unsteadily. “Whoa!”
Yusuf-his mind still partially on all the sexploits (and imagining that’s it’s himself and Robert, rather than Eames and Arthur)-jumps up to take Eames’s elbow. “Are you alright? Shall I call you cab?"
Eames appears to give it great consideration. Then giggles, laying his head on Yusuf's shoulder. “Yes. Especially since that’s how I arrived here, and I’m in no state to be walking two miles home.” His breath puffs moist and warm on Yusuf's neck.
And so, rolling his eyes yet once more, Yusuf helps Eames sit down again, and goes on the hunt for his phone book.
Fifteen minutes later, one arm around Eames's waist, the other bearing their weight up on the banister, he’s helping Eames downstairs, one careful step at a time. Eames, for his drunken part, has one arm slung around Yusuf's neck and is gesturing wildly with the other as he talks about God-only-knows what.
They make it to the lobby without either of them breaking their necks-though it was a close thing several times-and Yusuf steers Eames to the front door. Double-parked out front is a yellow Crown Victoria with the logo: CITY TAXI.
“Let’s hope the night air sobers you up some,” Yusuf says optimistically, grunting as Eames leans heavily against him. Yusuf somehow navigates their way out the door, into the cool night, and down the front steps (Yusuf’s eyes are on their feet all the way, and he sends up a prayer of thanks when they reach the sidewalk without incident).
“Western wind, when wilt thou blow, that the small rain down can rain? Christ, that my love were in my arms, and I in my bed again!” Eames intones loudly as Yusuf tugs him toward the cab. It’s a bitch getting the back door open and keeping Eames from wandering off. But he does it.
“Don’t worry, soon you’ll have both love and bed. Just-be a darling for Yusuf and get in the cab.”
“Can’t go in to work like this, Yusuf . . . just can’t,” Eames mutters sadly, and Yusuf puts a hand on his head and tries to shove him bodily into the cab. "Yusuf! I'll be bloody sacked!"
“But you’re not going to work, Eames, remember? You’re going home to Arthur, isn’t that right?”
Eames’s bleary eyes light up and he stops struggling, sliding into the cab with the loose-limbed flexibility of the very drunk. He actually winds up on his back, with his legs hanging out of the door. “Arthur! My darling!”
“Yes, that’s right: Arthur.” Yusuf leans in and helps Eames right himself. It’s a two man job, and with Eames drunk beyond usefulness, they’re a man short. “Now, give the nice driver your address so he can get you to Arthur as soon as possible.”
“Grand idea!” Eames leans forward to puff in the rather alarmed driver’s ear. “Arthur’s my lover. We made the skies fall tonight.”
“Uh-“ the driver-Anthony Chen, per his medallion-says, and Yusuf laughs, loud and fake.
“Oh, never mind him, he’s just a little tipsy. But here’s a twenty-“ Yusuf waves a twenty dollar bill at Mr. Chen, who seems to seriously consider turning it down, before taking it. “Keep the change, and just get my friend home in one piece.”
"Yeah . . . okay." Mr. Chen shrugs with the sudden zen of a long-time cabdriver. He reminds Yusuf more than a little of Ariadne.
“583 South 23rd Street!” Eames suddenly exclaims, startling both Yusuf and the driver.
In fact Mr. Chen looks like he’s about to hand back the twenty and say fuck that.
“Well, you heard the man!” Yusuf says quickly, before Mr. Chen can say anything or change his mind. “G’night, Eames!”
“G’bye, Yu-“ Yusuf slams the door shut before Eames can finish. He backs up to the stoop, waving, and smiling a big, phony smile.
A minute later, the cab takes off, Eames leaning out the window to yell: “Byeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
When the cab turns at the corner, Yusuf heaves a sigh and is about to turn and go inside, when he notices it across the street. He hadn’t noticed it before, preoccupied as he was with Eames not breaking both their necks. And he certainly hadn’t noticed it while fighting to get Eames in the cab. But now, with Eames and cab both out of sight, he couldn’t miss it if he tried.
The Phantom.
Parked across the street, with its driver leaning against the driver side door, arms crossed, face unreadable. Managing to look damn near immaculate in his fitted, dark-blue suit and re-knotted tie.
Even his hair is fucking perfect.
Yusuf almost takes a step forward, but stops himself. He crosses his own arms and tries to look unreadable, too. But dressed, as he is, only in his pajama bottoms, a t-shirt, and flip-flops, he just feels ridiculous.
“You came back,” he says, just loud enough to carry, and that unreadable façade cracks enough to let out a wry smile.
“I never left,” Robert says, and Yusuf can’t stop his eyes from widening just a tad.
“You’re saying you’ve been out here for the past-nearly three hours?”
Robert shrugs, his smile fading. “It felt like we had unfinished business.”
“And what business would that be?”
Robert straightens up and crosses the street slowly. By the time he’s reached the sidewalk, Yusuf’s already backed up the stairs. When his ass hits the front door, Robert’s foot hits the first step and he ascends determinedly.
Yusuf-the keys in his left pocket quite forgotten-briefly considers jumping over the railing and running off down the street.
But where to? he thinks helplessly as Robert reaches the top step and pauses.
He searches Yusuf’s eyes for what feels like days, his own solemn and intent . . . then he’s crossing the landing, closing the brief distance between himself and Yusuf. Each step makes Yusuf’s heart beat faster, till he can’t hear the other sounds of the night over it.
Then Robert’s right in front of him, scant inches separating them.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “About what I said, about being jealous of that Eames guy, and trying to lord our . . . relationship, such as it is, over him. And I’m especially sorry that I didn’t think enough of you to believe you when you said there was no one for me to be jealous over.”
Yusuf’s crossed arms turn into a quick embrace of himself before falling to his sides. He wants to embrace Robert, but doesn't think he should. Not yet. “Seriously, tell me now: are you going to be like that with every guy I know?”
That wry smile makes a slight reappearance. “Probably . . . at least if I don’t train myself out of the habit.”
“Robert, I’m being serious!”
“So’m I.” Robert looks down for a moment. “It’s the kind of thing only time is gonna take care of, Yusuf. Eventually I’ll get it through my thick skull that even though you could run away from me, screaming, you probably won’t, provided I keep my worst instincts under some kind of control. I mean, notice I didn’t run over here demanding to know why Mr. Eames was in your apartment for so long.”
Yusuf’s eyes narrow. “And it’s a good thing for you that you didn’t, because it had nothing to do with you, and as such, is none of your business.”
Robert holds up his hands placatingly. “I know, I know. Believe me, I know. You said you’re not interested in him, romanctically, and I believe you.”
“Well . . . good.”
Robert nods and shoves his hands in his pockets, rocking from heel to toe, and back again, just as Eames had done earlier in the evening.
He looks like a man who doesn’t want to leave, but thinks he should anyway.
This opinion is borne out by Robert’s next words: “Anyway, it’s late, and I should probably go. . . .”
Yusuf rolls his eyes-neither for the first nor the last time where Robert Fischer is concerned-but can’t help smiling. Before Robert can turn away, Yusuf reaches out and grabs his lapels, pulling him close.
“It is late, but I think you should stay,” Yusuf says, staring into blue, blue eyes so close to his own. Once more he throws caution to the wind and goes with his gut. “Stay, Robert.”
Robert blinks. “Um, are you sure? I mean, I understand if you want me to go-“
Yusuf cuts Robert off by the simple expedient of kissing him lightly.
“Stay,” he murmurs for the third time, and Robert moans a little.
“Yeah . . . I could do that,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss Yusuf, his hands immediately going to Yusuf’s hips to hold him steady. Yusuf’s arms wind around Robert’s neck, and shortly thereafter the kiss becomes a clinch, with Yusuf scritching his fingers through the hair on Robert’s nape, and Robert’s hands sliding around to the back of Yusuf’s pajama bottoms.
Yusuf’s breath catches when Robert’s hands dip under the slightly sprung waistband, and palm the cheeks of his ass-gently, at first, then with increasing urgency and possessiveness. His hands are large, warm, and welcome on Yusuf’s night-cooled skin.
“Oh,” Yusuf sighs happily when Robert turns his attention to neck and throat, and the leaving of hickeys. “I n-never did take you on that t-tour of my place. . . .”
“Mm, I do recall you mentioning a tour.” Robert walks them back a bit, till Yusuf’s pressed against the door and Robert's pressed against Yusuf. They’re both hard and getting harder with each shared breath.
Yusuf leans his head back against the door and stares unseeingly up into the night as Robert kisses his throat and murmurs sweet, dirty nothings: I wanna be inside you so bad, and I'll bet you're hot like a furnace and so tight, and gonna make you come till you pass out.
And so on.
This is my life. This is my life, Yusuf tells himself, and still doesn’t quite believe it. Not even when Robert kisses him again, the sort of tantalizing, teasing, lingering kiss that hints at so much more to come.
It ends with a chuckle from Robert, and a controlled squeeze of Yusuf’s hips before those wonderful hands leave his pajama bottoms altogether.
“Let’s take this tour inside, shall we?”
Yusuf exhales heavily, torn between climbing three flights of stairs to his warm bed, or humping out on his front stoop like a dog in heat.
Then he remembers that inside-in his night table, specifically-is where the lube and the condoms are. Suddenly, the choice is crystal clear, and he chuckles, too, digging in his pocket for his remembered keys.
“We shall,” he says, leaning in to nuzzle Robert’s cheek, before turning to the door. Robert immediately plasters himself against Yusuf’s back, arms around Yusuf's waist, his erection poking insistently against Yusuf’s ass. Yusuf chuckles again, somewhat breathlessly, and somehow manages to unlock and open the door. “Welcome to my humble abode, um . . . sorry, it’s a bit of a climb-I’m on the third floor, and-“
Robert’s hands find Yusuf’s hips again and pull them back hard at the same time as he pushes his own hips forward. They both hiss at the sensation-undoubtedly more powerful for Yusuf’s, whose pajama bottoms are thinner than Robert’s slacks.
“Does this feel like I care how many flights of stairs I have to climb to be with you?” Robert whispers roughly, shakily in Yusuf’s ear, undulating his own hips in lazy, but powerful thrusts. “I think I’d climb Everest to be with you, Yusuf.”
Yusuf is flattered, in spite of himself. It makes him feel tender toward Robert, and rather possessive, himself. “Thankfully for us both, you don’t. C’mon; soonest begun is soonest done.”
“I think you’ll shortly be finding out how true that’s not,” Robert breathes, his thumbs rubbing the points of Yusuf’s hips.
And with that, without letting go of Yusuf, Robert walks them forward into the vestibule. Once more, Yusuf finds himself trying to get a man safely through three flights of potential death. Unlike Eames, however, Robert is sober. And quite handsy. And quite content, at one point, to make out with and grind against Yusuf on Mrs. Mizlaburski’s door.
And never mind what he tries to do to Yusuf on Mr. Redding’s door.
All told, it takes them more than twenty minutes to get up to the third floor. But when they get there, Robert seems to come to his senses. He doesn’t let go of Yusuf, but neither does he interfere with Yusuf trying to get them to his door. Or trying to open it. Which seems to take for-fucking-ever, with Robert pressed against him, hard in all the right places. . . .
“Well . . . this is me!” Yusuf says brightly, breathlessly, stepping in with Robert, whose arms are wrapped around his waist once more. One hand disappears briefly as Robert nudges the door shut behind them, and even engages the lock. Then he’s embracing Yusuf again and kissing the back of his neck. Something that makes it difficult for Yusuf to remember his duties as a host. “That’s, uh, the kitchenette over there, we’re s-standing in the livingroom. The bathroom is-“
But Robert clearly isn’t listening. What he is doing is letting go of Yusuf and stepping around him. He takes a quick, disinterested glance around the apartment, then turns to Yusuf and pushes him up against the door, pinning his arms and looking into his eyes. His own are flame-blue and heated. “Would you mind terribly if I didn’t care, at the moment?”
“Um . . . no?”
“Good.” Robert slithers slowly, smirkingly, to his knees, his hands sliding down Yusuf’s body leaving tingling trails of pleasure in their wake.
Not once does he break eye contact, nor does he allow Yusuf to do so.
Yusuf moans, the back of his head hitting the door. His eyes finally fall shut as Robert nuzzles his cock through cloth then pulls down Yusuf’s pajama bottoms . . . with his teeth.
Okay, this is my life . . . but how is it my life? How am I this luck-oh, God!
For a while, there's no more thinking.
TBC
Dude (6/7)
Author:
_beetle_
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Robert/Yusuf, Arthur/Eames
Rating: Soft NC-17
Word Count: Approx. 6400
Disclaimer: Not stealing, just appreciating.
Notes: An AU where the Inception team works at a men's magazine called Dude. Previous parts hold court here.
Summary: Written for the
inception_kink prompt: Yusuf is working his first job out of college as a "fact checker" for a semi-sleazy men's magazine; doomed to spend his days researching protein bars and celebrity bra sizes. Robert Fischer is his boss whom he has a million good reasons to hate. So why doesn't he?
“Uh . . . do you know that guy?”
Yusuf looks over at Robert and fights a blush. “Um, yeah . . . he-“
“Wait-doesn’t he work at Dude?” Robert squints out the window at Eames, who’s still waving and grinning. “The English guy who writes that sex advice column?”
“Ask Eames, and yes.” Yusuf sighs. “This would be Eames.”
“Ah.” Robert looks befuddled for a moment then his face closes off so suddenly, it’s startling. “Should I be jealous?”
Yusuf can only stare for a moment. Then he snorts. “Of Eames? You’re kidding, right?”
That closed-off look doesn’t change one iota and Yusuf sighs again. “No, you don’t. And if you’re going to get jealous over every guy I’m friends with, Robert, then you’re going to wind up being jealous of, like, at least two guys.”
Robert blinks then cracks a smile. Then he chuckles, his eyes warming and his face losing that rigid, unreadable look. When he leans in to kiss Yusuf, it’s long and possessive. The sort of kiss that ends with them both trying to catch their breath and regain their wits.
“I don’t think he’s going to go away,” Robert breathes as Eames starts tapping on the window again. Yusuf, momentarily discombobulated, says: “Who go where?”
“Your friend, Eames.” Robert nods at the window and Yusuf looks back over his shoulder. “He’s pretty persistent.”
“Yes, he certainly is,” Yusuf says flatly, glaring out the window. Eames merely grins bigger and waves again, gesturing for Yusuf to roll down the window. “And you’re right. He’s not going anywhere till he’s had his say.”
“I thought not.” Robert is the one to sigh, this time then he sits up straight in his seat. His arm, however, doesn’t relinquish the back of the passenger side seat.
“Mood? Effectively ruined,” Yusuf mutters, fumbling at the little control panel set in the door before finding the power window button.
When the window slides smoothly down, Eames puts his hand on his hips and rocks back and forth a little.
“Hullo, darling,” he says brightly, leaning down to look into the car, his eyes seeking and almost immediately finding Robert’s. “Mr. Fischer.”
“Mr. Eames.” Robert says rather dryly, his face gone unreadable again. “Fancy meeting you, here, too.”
“Well, Yusuf’s a mate of mine, and I just wanted to check in on him. Touch base as you Americans like to say.” Eames laughs, a rich, low party-laugh in which neither Yusuf nor Robert join him.
In fact, when all they do is stare at him-Yusuf pleading with his eyes for Eames to take the hint and make himself scarce-Eames laughs again, a bit uncomfortably, this time, and leans on the roof of the Phantom. He peers intently into the car, cataloguing the interior.
“Bloody gorgeous automobile,” he notes, and Robert nods.
“Thanks.”
And there the conversation falls flat.
After exactly twenty-seven seconds of awkward silence, Yusuf finally groans and cuts to the chase. “Eames, why are you here?”
The used car-salesman smile greets Yusuf. “Why, to check in on you, as I’ve said. What else are friends for?”
“Cock-blocking, apparently,” Robert says ruefully, under his breath, and they both look at him, both in surprise. Robert gazes back, unruffled. “What? Clearly that’s your intention, right?”
“Well-“ Eames clears his throat, but doesn’t bother lying.
“So, the question becomes: Why, exactly, are you cock-blocking Yusuf-not to mention me.” Robert’s head tilts in seemingly mild curiosity, but his eyes are hard. “Feel free to explain at any moment.”
Eames looks absolutely gobsmacked, an expression Yusuf has never and never thought he’d see on that knowing, self-assured face. But the expression clears quickly enough, leaving behind a grim, determined look in its wake.
“Honestly, Mr. Fischer?” Eames quirks an eyebrow. “I’m here to make certain my good friend here doesn’t make a terrible mistake.”
Robert raises an eyebrow, himself. “And what mistake would that be?”
“Fucking you, of course.” Eames says mildly, and it’s a startling enough admission that Robert’s and Yusuf’s mouth drops open. “See, Yusuf is quite a wonderful person. Anyone would be lucky to have him in their life in any capacity, and that’s something I’m not certain you realize-”
“Don’t tell me what I don’t realize, Mr. Eames,” Robert interrupts tersely, his tone arctic, even as his hand, warm and reassuring, comes to rest on Yusuf’s knee. It’s a gesture Eames’s keen eyes don’t miss.
“-and while I’m sure you’re attracted to him, and maybe even finding yourself growing fond of him, there’s still the matter of your unfortunate track record to keep in the forefront of one’s mind.” Eames says, his voice turning as hard as Robert’s stony gaze. “You see, Yusuf isn’t anything like your usual type. He’s smart, funny, and genuine. He has a heart and it’s no doubt discarded all attempts at self-preservation while staring into your big blue eyes.”
“Eames!” Yusuf exclaims, his face aflame. He starts to roll up the window, but Robert stays his hand.
“No,” he says quietly, angrily. “Let him keep digging his own grave with his mouth.”
“Robert, no-Eames, please don’t say whatever you’re going to say next. I’m begging you. I’m an adult and I can look after my own heart.” Yusuf says defensively, his finger still hovering near the button to close the window.
“Is that so?” Eames’s gaze gentles as he looks at Yusuf. “Darling, don’t tell me you’re not already half in love with him.”
And here Yusuf had thought he couldn’t possibly turn any redder. “I-I-“
“What Yusuf and I may or may not feel for one another is none of your business.” Robert comes to Yusuf’s rescue, his hand coming back to rest on Yusuf’s knee.
“But I’ve made it my business, mate.” Eames says, his voice gone hard again. “I don’t want to see my friend get his heart broken just so you can have another notch on your very tasteful belt.”
Robert snorts. “It seems to me for all I don’t know how wonderful Yusuf is, you’re the one who doesn’t have any faith in his ability to not only attract a man’s interest, but to keep it,” he says, sneering. Hectic roses bloom in Eames’s cheeks.
“No, I just haven’t any faith that you aren’t a heartless, philandering bastard.”
“EAMES!” Yusuf yells, burying his face in his hands. “Oh, God, please shut up!”
“Or are you just pissed off that I got there first?” Robert demands, and Yusuf looks up and over at him, mouth dropping open in shock and offense.
“I beg your pardon? Got where, exactly?” he asks with stilted politeness, and Robert blushes, looking uncertain and darting his eyes everywhere but at Yusuf.
“Uh-“ he says, then loosens his already loose tie even further. “What I meant was-“
“Yes, what did you mean, Mr. Fischer?” Eames asks sweetly. Yusuf throws a quick glare at him then turns back to Robert.
“I just meant-“ Robert restates, but Yusuf’s too angry, all of a sudden, to let him finish.
“I know what you meant, Robert. You mean that even after what I told you, you’re still jealous!” Yusuf laughs mirthlessly. “What-now you think I’m a liar-or that I’m that fickle?”
“No, it’s not that-I just-“ Robert stammers, looking quite miserable, even as he finds the courage to meet Yusuf’s eyes. “This all came out the wrong way-“
“I’ll say it di-hang on, a moment-you’re jealous of me?” Eames asks, looking surprised. “Why on Earth would you be jealous of me?”
“Oh, please!” Robert snorts disdainfully. “I’m not jealous of you!”
“That’s right, Eames, he just thinks that if you took it into your head to chase after me, I’d just roll over and let you fuck me, isn’t that right, Robert?” Yusuf demands, scowling at Robert, who seems to shrink just a bit, wincing under Yusuf’s angry regard and Eames's smirking enjoyment.
“Darling, have you got the plot twisted,” he says to Robert, laughing. “My heart’s already spoken for.”
“Yeah? Well, it’s not your heart I’m worried about,” Robert huffs, crossing his arms like a tantrum-y child. “You strike me as the type who can’t keep it in his pants to save his life.”
Eames’s mouth drops open. “Well! I never-Yusuf, what on Earth do you see in this rude, pompous prick?”
“You’re calling me pompous? That’s rich!”
“Well, you’d know all about ‘rich,’ wouldn’t you? And damn little about anything else!”
Robert rolls his eyes. “Thus speaks the righteous voice of the proletariat . . . how much do you make per year, again?”
“Oh, a little less than what you spent tonight trying to impress Yusuf, I’d wager.” Eames retorts, which no doubt touches close to home for Robert, who’d not half an hour ago tipped a valet one thousand dollars.
“Our date is none of your business!” he huffs.
“And as I said before, I’m making it my business. And so help me, if you break Yusuf’s heart in the slightest, I’ll hunt you down and beat you to death with a shovel!”
Rolling his eyes again, Robert shakes his head. “Now, you’re giving me the Shovel Speech? Unbelievable! It sounds like a Watcher, but it talks like a Scoob!” he says in a falsely fascinated aside to no one in particular.
Eames gazes at Robert blankly. “What in the bloody hell are you on about, mate?”
“Oh, gee, Spike, I dunno.” Robert starts snickering-rather meanly-and the image of a child having a tantrum is further reinforced in Yusuf’s mind.
And Eames is hardly behaving any better, letting himself be baited, and baiting in turn.
Yusuf listens to them bicker for a minute-Robert throwing out Buffy-isms and Eames unwittingly throwing out Spike- and Giles-isms in response-until it feels as if his head’s going to explode. . . .
“SHUT UP!” he yells, and for a wonder, they both do. But Yusuf can’t seem to stop telling them to shut up, anyway. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”
And in the silence that follows, all that can be heard is Yusuf fumbling about the passenger side door control panel, once more. In a few seconds, the door is swinging open, causing Eames to jump back and Robert to reach out and grab Yusuf’s arm.
“Wait, Yusuf-“
“Bloody hell, Yusuf, what’s got into you?”
But Yusuf shakes his head and snatches his arm back, sliding out of the Phantom. “Thank you for a lovely evening, Robert. Good night, Eames.”
And with that, he shoulders past Eames, up to the front steps of his apartment building.
Once inside the vestibule, he leans on the door, trying to decide whether he’s upset or not that neither best friend nor not-quite-lover had come after him.
*
Twenty minutes later, dressed in his bedclothes of pajama bottoms and hole-y Dreamtheater t-shirt, Yusuf’s comfortable on his couch, nursing a Pibb Xtra, and watching a rerun of The New Adventures of Old Christine, when the intercom buzzer goes off.
And goes off.
And just to be extra awesome, goes off some more.
After ten minutes, Yusuf’s ready to tear his hair out. Ignoring the damn thing is no longer an option, since he can barely make out what the hell’s going on on his show over its insistent drone. And cranking up the volume on the television at this hour would just be inconsiderate to his neighbors. Maybe even as inconsiderate as leaning on someone’s buzzer at eleven-thirty at night.
Finally, Yusuf puts down his soda, turns off the television, and shuffles to the door. After a few moments of hesitation-he’s not certain whether he wants it to be Robert, Eames, or just some random prank by bored, unsupervised teenagers-he pushes the button: “Yes?”
“Yusuf, mate!”
Eames, it is, then.
Swallowing his disappointment, Yusuf heaves a sigh and pushes the button again. “It’s late, Eames. You can finish telling me you told me so, or whatever it is you want to say tomorrow morning, after ten, over the phone.”
“But you never check your phone, do you, darling?” Eames’s tinny, accusing voice sizzles out of the speaker like sexy bacon. “If you did, you’d know why I initially dropped by to see you.”
Yusuf rolls his eyes. “If this is about Robert-“
“Oh, not everything is about Robert, love, despite what the both of you like to think.” Eames laughs. “Listen, check your phone, and then you can decide whether to let me in.”
“Eames. . . .”
“I’m willing to wait here all night, Yusuf. I have to talk to someone about what’s happened.”
“What’s happened, Eames?” Yusuf asks, a twinge of worry coloring his lingering irritation. “Is everything alright?”
No answer.
“Eames?”
Still no answer.
“Goddamnit, Eames!”
Grumbling about annoying Englishmen, Yusuf shuffles off to his bedroom. Sitting on his dresser is his cellphone-which he should’ve plugged in to the charger as soon as he got home-and he picks it up.
And it’s true, he doesn’t check his voicemail or texts like he should, often not receiving messages for days after they were sent. He’s been getting better about it, but apparently not fast enough. According to the phone, Eames has been trying to reach him since eight twenty-eight p.m.
There are three voicemails and about five thousand text messages, but it’s the first text message that has Yusuf rushing back to the door, Robert forgotten for the moment.
He pushes the intercom button:
“You slept with Arthur?!”
No answer.
Yusuf rolls his eyes again. “I’m buzzing you up.”
“Right-o.”
Yusuf holds the buzzer for ten seconds then opens his door. He can hear Eames making his leisurely way up the three flights of stairs, whistling jauntily. Yusuf leans against the door frame, crosses his arms, and waits.
Soon enough, Eames is stepping onto the landing, grinning the wistful, contented grin of the come-stupid.
“Well, hell,” Yusuf says wonderingly. “You really did sleep with Arthur.”
That grin widens. “There was no sleep involved, mate.” Edging past Yusuf into the apartment, Eames immediately heads toward the kitchenette and the fridge like he’s been to Yusuf’s apartment a thousand times before. “Please tell me you have some sort of spirits available. I need some hair of the dog to stave off an epic hangover.”
Closing his door and locking it, Yusuf sighs. “Cabinet over the fridge. I’ve got some Bacardi 151.”
Eames glances over at Yusuf and makes a face. “Love, that’s not spirits. That’s bloody rocketship fuel!”
Rolling his eyes, Yusuf shuffles back to his couch and sits down. “Beggars can’t be choosers, Eames. It’s the 151 or Zima.”
“Augh!” Eames makes a disturbingly realistic gagging sound. “151, it is. Glasses-?”
“Cabinet above the sink.” Yusuf swings his legs up onto the couch and lays down. “Now stop stalling. What’s all this about you and Arthur making the beast with two backs?”
“All in due time, Dearest Yusuf, all in due time.” Eames slops generous amounts of on 151 in two glasses, caps the bottle then brings it and the glasses into Yusuf’s livingroom. He carefully places the whole kit and caboodle on the coffee table then parks himself at the other end of the couch, completely disregarding Yusuf’s feet.
“Jerk,” Yusuf mutters, pulling his feet out from under Eames’s ass and kicking him lightly in the hip for good measure. Eames catches Yusuf’s right foot, pulls it into his lap, and begins massaging it.
“Eames, what on Earth are you-holy mother of God . . . where did you learn this?” Yusuf moans happily, as tension and vague aches he didn’t even realize he had, in both calve and foot, reach a crescendo before suddenly draining away under Eames’s talented hands.
“One of my previous partners was training to be a reflexologist.” Eames says thoughtfully then laughs. “He used to practice on me all the time. I guess some of it stuck.”
“Bless him, then.”
Eames laughs again. “Not hardly. I caught him, er, practicing reflexology with one of his female classmates. And in my bed, no less.”
Yusuf’s eyebrows shoot up. “No way.”
“Oh, yes, way. Does it surprise you that the great repository of sexual knowledge lost his boyfriend to a tawdry, sexual infidelity?”
“Not hardly. Some men are just born to be unfaithful, I suppose,” Yusuf says, rather glumly, wondering if Robert is one of those guys. Maybe that's why he seems to think Yusuf is. “I mean, no matter how faithful they mean to be, some guys are just . . . incapable of being with just one person, right?”
Eames makes a noise that could be agreement.
“Anyway, he was a fool to cheat, and you’re well rid of him,” Yusuf declares, feeling a small stab of anger and defensiveness on behalf of the man who, in retrospect, has been the closest friend he’s ever had. “Men. Can't live with them, can't live without them. Though Lord knows I've tried. And failed.”
“Amen, sister.”
He and Yusuf glance at each other then grin. Then they start laughing. Yusuf’s laugh, however, turns into a relieved groan as Eames switches feet.
“Good God, but you’re tense tonight,” he notes kindly. “Not that I blame you, what with Robert Fischer tugging you in one direction-“
“Actually, the tugging had barely started before you interrupted,” Yusuf says, letting his head sink into a cushion and closing his eyes. He throws one arm over his eyes and sighs.
“-and me coming along and trying to tug you in another,” Eames finishes. “I apologize for that, by the way.”
When Yusuf peaks out from under his arm, Eames is looking at him solemnly. “Oh, yes. Unlike some billionaires who shall remain nameless, I can admit when I’m being a complete wanker.
“And I was being a wanker. But from the moment he pulled up and grew those octopus arms, I saw red. And not, as he insinuated, because I want you for myself. But because I care about you, and I don’t want to see you lose your heart to someone who won’t take care of it.”
“Eames-“ Yusuf covers his eyes again. “You’re the one who told me to sleep with him if I couldn’t resist!”
“And I was wrong to tell you that, Yusuf,” Eames says with a heavy sigh. “To some, sex means little more than getting off, but you’re not one of those people, are you? You can’t screw around without getting emotionally involved, can you?”
“Who says I can’t?”
“Alright, then, when was the last time you had sex, and were you in a steady relationship when it happened?”
Yusuf peeks out again. But now, Eames is staring at Yusuf’s foot, smiling that infuriating, knowing smile.
“That’s none of your business.”
“Which is all the answer I need,” Eames goes on cheerfully. “And all the reasons why I was afraid of what would happen if you slept with Robert Fischer.”
Yusuf frowns. “Was afraid?”
“Well.” Eames looks at Yusuf again, and his smile turns a bit rueful. “Would it surprise you to know I’ve had something of a change of heart?”
“About Robert? Yes. I might just have a stroke.” But glibness aside, Yusuf sits up a little on one elbow. “Have you really?”
Eames nods reluctantly, then adds: “Not completely, mind you. But I’m finding it hard to believe that any man who gets that jealous over who you’re fucking wants just a quick wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am. Though that kind of possessiveness so early in whatever his idea of a relationship is, is . . . worrying.”
Yusuf smiles a little. “I dunno . . . it's kind of flattering. Heh, he even got jealous when I told him about my childhood crush on Doogie Howser.”
“Who?”
Laughing, Yusuf shakes his head. “No one. You were saying?”
With one last squeeze, Eames lets go of Yusuf’s foot. “I was saying that maybe he’s so jealous and possessive because he’s never had a real relationship before. Or the potential for one. And he just doesn’t know how to trust it or you or the fact that if you didn’t want him, you wouldn’t be wasting your time stringing him along,” he muses, leaning forward to snag the glasses, one of which he passes to Yusuf, who takes it hesitantly, then throws caution to the wind. It’s not like he has to go to work in the morning. “You realize that I’m probably right, right? That dating this man is going to be like dating a teenager, in some ways. He’s going to make a lot of mistakes, some of them extremely hurtful. To the point that you may wish you’d never got involved with him. He clearly has trust issues and is a notorious control-freak. In short: he’s no Prince Charming. He’s an emotionally stunted man-child who has no idea how to handle falling in love and then simply being with someone.”
Yusuf sips at his rum, and doesn’t say anything till the generous glass is half empty and his mouth and throat burn. “Don’t you think I’ve realized all that? I may be half in love with the man, as you say, but that doesn’t mean I’m blind. Or that I’m willing to overlook his obvious flaws.”
Now Eames’s gaze turns keen and appraising. “Then what does it mean?”
“I don’t know, okay?” Yusuf blurts out, finishing the rest of his rum in one long, burning swallow. “All I know is it’s barely been one day, and I’m already thinking of my future-my life in terms of Robert Fischer, and what Robert will think or do. And even though I’ve tried, I can’t stop thinking about him and wanting him. I need to be with him, like you said, in every sense of the word, no matter the risk. I’m willing to live dangerously, so to speak, to have a chance with him." Yusuf shakes his head. "You think letting him fuck me will cause me to lose my heart?” He laughs, though it hurts his throat to do so, and makes his next words come out hoarse and pained. “It’s too late for that, Eames, don’t you understand? And even if I could change it . . . I wouldn’t. I’m drowning, and smiling as I go down.”
Eames’s keen look turns almost pitying. “Oh, my poor darling,” he says softly, putting his hand on Yusuf’s knee. “It’ll be alright. It’s clear that he already thinks more of you than he did of Taran Colby-“
“Which isn’t saying much.”
“-or any of the others. Whatever else he wants from you-love, loyalty, complete and utter fealty-he wants what's between you two to work. And while want means next to nothing when you don’t have the tools needed to get . . . it still counts for something.” Eames says, trying on a reassuring smile. Yusuf lays back into the cushion and puts his empty glass on the coffee table and his hands on his stomach.
“I don’t even know, anymore,” he says finally. “I mean, I know what I want: Robert. I know what I have to do to have him: be patient with him and trust him. I know what it could cost me to keep him: my heart, my pride, my self-respect. And I’ve made peace with having to walk that tightrope . . . as much peace as I can. I just . . . he overwhelms me. No matter what emotion he arouses in me, it’s the very Nth of that emotion. He doesn’t make me merely happy. He makes me incandescent with joy. He doesn’t merely make me annoyed. He makes me so angry that I have to get away from him before I explode. He doesn’t just make me horny. He makes me ache with wanting him, even though I know having him will only make the wanting worse. He. . . .”
“Overwhelms you,” Eames finishes for him, and Yusuf nods ruefully.
“I think . . . I think it’s a good thing you came along when you did, Eames. Everything was moving so fast, and . . . maybe he and I just need to take things slow for now.” Yusuf sighs, shaking his head. “Not that it'll make a difference.”
Eames shrugs. “It might not. But it’s worth a shot.”
"The problem is, when I'm around him . . . when he touches me . . . God, I've never wanted anyone so much." Yusuf sighs and hugs himself. "It's a little scary to want someone so badly."
"Love, if that's what this turns out to be, is a very scary prospect. Wonderful, but terrible, too." Eames pats Yusuf's knee kindly. "It co-opts one's heart, mind, and soul. One finds oneself living and breathing for someone else, until there's no 'me' anymore, just 'we' . . . it's quite ghastly."
"Yeah," Yusuf agrees, smiling a little, without realizing it.
They sit and lay in silence, respectively, Yusuf staring up at the ceiling, Eames polishing off his glassful and pouring another.
“Take my mind off of Robert. Tell me about you and Arthur,” Yusuf says absently. Eames snorts.
“What’s to tell, in light of your intense, whirlwind of a romance?"
Now Yusuf snorts. "At least you got laid. Was it everything you thought it'd be?"
"Mm. And more. He's hung like a bloody mule. Hurts every bloody step I take," Eames says smugly. Yusuf chuckles.
"Size queen."
Eames rolls his eyes. "Well, yes. But Arthur not only has the size, but he has the talent to use it. He wields that thing masterfully. Like it's bloody Excalibur."
"Nice." Yusuf wonders briefly if Robert's hung like a mule. Though he's no size queen, like Eames is, he does tend to prefer guys with girth, more so than length. And from his brief foray below Robert's belt, Yusuf has a feeling that he's going to be pleasantly surprised. "So is this Conor Eames's Big Happily Ever After?"
Eames shrugs again, looking broody for a moment. "Dunno, you tell me? I mean, it was just one night. One amazing, perfect fuck . . . well, several, actually. For all I know, Arthur's the king of such one night stands."
"Doubtful," Yusuf says thoughtfully. "He doesn't strike me as the sort to sport-fuck a guy then run. Whether he was drunk or not."
"Let's hope so," Eames sighs, knocking back his rum.
"Why don't you start from the beginning? How does someone, even you, go from obsessing in secret over shy, retiring, reclusive Arthur, to getting the Excalibur treatment from him?" Yusuf asks curiously. Eames looks sheepish for a moment, then squares his shoulders.
"Alcohol may have been involved. . . ."
"I'm not surprised."
"Listen, you, a drunk man speaks a sober man's mind."
"And apparently gets into other drunk men's pants." Yusuf grins. "Anyway, start from the beginning, and don't leave anything out."
"It shall be as my lord commands." Eames salutes Yusuf smartly, though his cheeks are faintly red. "Well, I was knocking off work a bit early today, when I caught Arthur doing the same. We literally ran into each other at the lift-“
“And had sex on the way to the lobby?”
“Who’s telling this story?” Eames asks sternly. Holding back a laugh, Yusuf sweeps out his hand in a grand gesture for Eames to continue.
“Right, then. So, we get to the lobby, neither of us saying so much as a word to each other. But as he steps out, I somehow grew a great, hairy pair of bollocks because I went after him and asked him if he’d like to join me for a quick scotch and soda at O’Flaherty’s. . . .”
*
By the time Eames finishes regaling Yusuf with tales of his and Arthur’s sexploits-and Yusuf’s still not certain, by the end, how they got from “a quick scotch and soda,” to “making the skies fall” in Eames’s condo-it’s nearly two a.m. A fact which is only brought to Yusuf’s attention when a thoroughly snockered Eames glances at his watch and swears.
“Well, not that it hasn’t been absolutely lovely chatting with you, darling, but Arthur may be awake and ready for round four,” he says, standing up unsteadily. “Whoa!”
Yusuf-his mind still partially on all the sexploits (and imagining that’s it’s himself and Robert, rather than Eames and Arthur)-jumps up to take Eames’s elbow. “Are you alright? Shall I call you cab?"
Eames appears to give it great consideration. Then giggles, laying his head on Yusuf's shoulder. “Yes. Especially since that’s how I arrived here, and I’m in no state to be walking two miles home.” His breath puffs moist and warm on Yusuf's neck.
And so, rolling his eyes yet once more, Yusuf helps Eames sit down again, and goes on the hunt for his phone book.
Fifteen minutes later, one arm around Eames's waist, the other bearing their weight up on the banister, he’s helping Eames downstairs, one careful step at a time. Eames, for his drunken part, has one arm slung around Yusuf's neck and is gesturing wildly with the other as he talks about God-only-knows what.
They make it to the lobby without either of them breaking their necks-though it was a close thing several times-and Yusuf steers Eames to the front door. Double-parked out front is a yellow Crown Victoria with the logo: CITY TAXI.
“Let’s hope the night air sobers you up some,” Yusuf says optimistically, grunting as Eames leans heavily against him. Yusuf somehow navigates their way out the door, into the cool night, and down the front steps (Yusuf’s eyes are on their feet all the way, and he sends up a prayer of thanks when they reach the sidewalk without incident).
“Western wind, when wilt thou blow, that the small rain down can rain? Christ, that my love were in my arms, and I in my bed again!” Eames intones loudly as Yusuf tugs him toward the cab. It’s a bitch getting the back door open and keeping Eames from wandering off. But he does it.
“Don’t worry, soon you’ll have both love and bed. Just-be a darling for Yusuf and get in the cab.”
“Can’t go in to work like this, Yusuf . . . just can’t,” Eames mutters sadly, and Yusuf puts a hand on his head and tries to shove him bodily into the cab. "Yusuf! I'll be bloody sacked!"
“But you’re not going to work, Eames, remember? You’re going home to Arthur, isn’t that right?”
Eames’s bleary eyes light up and he stops struggling, sliding into the cab with the loose-limbed flexibility of the very drunk. He actually winds up on his back, with his legs hanging out of the door. “Arthur! My darling!”
“Yes, that’s right: Arthur.” Yusuf leans in and helps Eames right himself. It’s a two man job, and with Eames drunk beyond usefulness, they’re a man short. “Now, give the nice driver your address so he can get you to Arthur as soon as possible.”
“Grand idea!” Eames leans forward to puff in the rather alarmed driver’s ear. “Arthur’s my lover. We made the skies fall tonight.”
“Uh-“ the driver-Anthony Chen, per his medallion-says, and Yusuf laughs, loud and fake.
“Oh, never mind him, he’s just a little tipsy. But here’s a twenty-“ Yusuf waves a twenty dollar bill at Mr. Chen, who seems to seriously consider turning it down, before taking it. “Keep the change, and just get my friend home in one piece.”
"Yeah . . . okay." Mr. Chen shrugs with the sudden zen of a long-time cabdriver. He reminds Yusuf more than a little of Ariadne.
“583 South 23rd Street!” Eames suddenly exclaims, startling both Yusuf and the driver.
In fact Mr. Chen looks like he’s about to hand back the twenty and say fuck that.
“Well, you heard the man!” Yusuf says quickly, before Mr. Chen can say anything or change his mind. “G’night, Eames!”
“G’bye, Yu-“ Yusuf slams the door shut before Eames can finish. He backs up to the stoop, waving, and smiling a big, phony smile.
A minute later, the cab takes off, Eames leaning out the window to yell: “Byeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
When the cab turns at the corner, Yusuf heaves a sigh and is about to turn and go inside, when he notices it across the street. He hadn’t noticed it before, preoccupied as he was with Eames not breaking both their necks. And he certainly hadn’t noticed it while fighting to get Eames in the cab. But now, with Eames and cab both out of sight, he couldn’t miss it if he tried.
The Phantom.
Parked across the street, with its driver leaning against the driver side door, arms crossed, face unreadable. Managing to look damn near immaculate in his fitted, dark-blue suit and re-knotted tie.
Even his hair is fucking perfect.
Yusuf almost takes a step forward, but stops himself. He crosses his own arms and tries to look unreadable, too. But dressed, as he is, only in his pajama bottoms, a t-shirt, and flip-flops, he just feels ridiculous.
“You came back,” he says, just loud enough to carry, and that unreadable façade cracks enough to let out a wry smile.
“I never left,” Robert says, and Yusuf can’t stop his eyes from widening just a tad.
“You’re saying you’ve been out here for the past-nearly three hours?”
Robert shrugs, his smile fading. “It felt like we had unfinished business.”
“And what business would that be?”
Robert straightens up and crosses the street slowly. By the time he’s reached the sidewalk, Yusuf’s already backed up the stairs. When his ass hits the front door, Robert’s foot hits the first step and he ascends determinedly.
Yusuf-the keys in his left pocket quite forgotten-briefly considers jumping over the railing and running off down the street.
But where to? he thinks helplessly as Robert reaches the top step and pauses.
He searches Yusuf’s eyes for what feels like days, his own solemn and intent . . . then he’s crossing the landing, closing the brief distance between himself and Yusuf. Each step makes Yusuf’s heart beat faster, till he can’t hear the other sounds of the night over it.
Then Robert’s right in front of him, scant inches separating them.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “About what I said, about being jealous of that Eames guy, and trying to lord our . . . relationship, such as it is, over him. And I’m especially sorry that I didn’t think enough of you to believe you when you said there was no one for me to be jealous over.”
Yusuf’s crossed arms turn into a quick embrace of himself before falling to his sides. He wants to embrace Robert, but doesn't think he should. Not yet. “Seriously, tell me now: are you going to be like that with every guy I know?”
That wry smile makes a slight reappearance. “Probably . . . at least if I don’t train myself out of the habit.”
“Robert, I’m being serious!”
“So’m I.” Robert looks down for a moment. “It’s the kind of thing only time is gonna take care of, Yusuf. Eventually I’ll get it through my thick skull that even though you could run away from me, screaming, you probably won’t, provided I keep my worst instincts under some kind of control. I mean, notice I didn’t run over here demanding to know why Mr. Eames was in your apartment for so long.”
Yusuf’s eyes narrow. “And it’s a good thing for you that you didn’t, because it had nothing to do with you, and as such, is none of your business.”
Robert holds up his hands placatingly. “I know, I know. Believe me, I know. You said you’re not interested in him, romanctically, and I believe you.”
“Well . . . good.”
Robert nods and shoves his hands in his pockets, rocking from heel to toe, and back again, just as Eames had done earlier in the evening.
He looks like a man who doesn’t want to leave, but thinks he should anyway.
This opinion is borne out by Robert’s next words: “Anyway, it’s late, and I should probably go. . . .”
Yusuf rolls his eyes-neither for the first nor the last time where Robert Fischer is concerned-but can’t help smiling. Before Robert can turn away, Yusuf reaches out and grabs his lapels, pulling him close.
“It is late, but I think you should stay,” Yusuf says, staring into blue, blue eyes so close to his own. Once more he throws caution to the wind and goes with his gut. “Stay, Robert.”
Robert blinks. “Um, are you sure? I mean, I understand if you want me to go-“
Yusuf cuts Robert off by the simple expedient of kissing him lightly.
“Stay,” he murmurs for the third time, and Robert moans a little.
“Yeah . . . I could do that,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss Yusuf, his hands immediately going to Yusuf’s hips to hold him steady. Yusuf’s arms wind around Robert’s neck, and shortly thereafter the kiss becomes a clinch, with Yusuf scritching his fingers through the hair on Robert’s nape, and Robert’s hands sliding around to the back of Yusuf’s pajama bottoms.
Yusuf’s breath catches when Robert’s hands dip under the slightly sprung waistband, and palm the cheeks of his ass-gently, at first, then with increasing urgency and possessiveness. His hands are large, warm, and welcome on Yusuf’s night-cooled skin.
“Oh,” Yusuf sighs happily when Robert turns his attention to neck and throat, and the leaving of hickeys. “I n-never did take you on that t-tour of my place. . . .”
“Mm, I do recall you mentioning a tour.” Robert walks them back a bit, till Yusuf’s pressed against the door and Robert's pressed against Yusuf. They’re both hard and getting harder with each shared breath.
Yusuf leans his head back against the door and stares unseeingly up into the night as Robert kisses his throat and murmurs sweet, dirty nothings: I wanna be inside you so bad, and I'll bet you're hot like a furnace and so tight, and gonna make you come till you pass out.
And so on.
This is my life. This is my life, Yusuf tells himself, and still doesn’t quite believe it. Not even when Robert kisses him again, the sort of tantalizing, teasing, lingering kiss that hints at so much more to come.
It ends with a chuckle from Robert, and a controlled squeeze of Yusuf’s hips before those wonderful hands leave his pajama bottoms altogether.
“Let’s take this tour inside, shall we?”
Yusuf exhales heavily, torn between climbing three flights of stairs to his warm bed, or humping out on his front stoop like a dog in heat.
Then he remembers that inside-in his night table, specifically-is where the lube and the condoms are. Suddenly, the choice is crystal clear, and he chuckles, too, digging in his pocket for his remembered keys.
“We shall,” he says, leaning in to nuzzle Robert’s cheek, before turning to the door. Robert immediately plasters himself against Yusuf’s back, arms around Yusuf's waist, his erection poking insistently against Yusuf’s ass. Yusuf chuckles again, somewhat breathlessly, and somehow manages to unlock and open the door. “Welcome to my humble abode, um . . . sorry, it’s a bit of a climb-I’m on the third floor, and-“
Robert’s hands find Yusuf’s hips again and pull them back hard at the same time as he pushes his own hips forward. They both hiss at the sensation-undoubtedly more powerful for Yusuf’s, whose pajama bottoms are thinner than Robert’s slacks.
“Does this feel like I care how many flights of stairs I have to climb to be with you?” Robert whispers roughly, shakily in Yusuf’s ear, undulating his own hips in lazy, but powerful thrusts. “I think I’d climb Everest to be with you, Yusuf.”
Yusuf is flattered, in spite of himself. It makes him feel tender toward Robert, and rather possessive, himself. “Thankfully for us both, you don’t. C’mon; soonest begun is soonest done.”
“I think you’ll shortly be finding out how true that’s not,” Robert breathes, his thumbs rubbing the points of Yusuf’s hips.
And with that, without letting go of Yusuf, Robert walks them forward into the vestibule. Once more, Yusuf finds himself trying to get a man safely through three flights of potential death. Unlike Eames, however, Robert is sober. And quite handsy. And quite content, at one point, to make out with and grind against Yusuf on Mrs. Mizlaburski’s door.
And never mind what he tries to do to Yusuf on Mr. Redding’s door.
All told, it takes them more than twenty minutes to get up to the third floor. But when they get there, Robert seems to come to his senses. He doesn’t let go of Yusuf, but neither does he interfere with Yusuf trying to get them to his door. Or trying to open it. Which seems to take for-fucking-ever, with Robert pressed against him, hard in all the right places. . . .
“Well . . . this is me!” Yusuf says brightly, breathlessly, stepping in with Robert, whose arms are wrapped around his waist once more. One hand disappears briefly as Robert nudges the door shut behind them, and even engages the lock. Then he’s embracing Yusuf again and kissing the back of his neck. Something that makes it difficult for Yusuf to remember his duties as a host. “That’s, uh, the kitchenette over there, we’re s-standing in the livingroom. The bathroom is-“
But Robert clearly isn’t listening. What he is doing is letting go of Yusuf and stepping around him. He takes a quick, disinterested glance around the apartment, then turns to Yusuf and pushes him up against the door, pinning his arms and looking into his eyes. His own are flame-blue and heated. “Would you mind terribly if I didn’t care, at the moment?”
“Um . . . no?”
“Good.” Robert slithers slowly, smirkingly, to his knees, his hands sliding down Yusuf’s body leaving tingling trails of pleasure in their wake.
Not once does he break eye contact, nor does he allow Yusuf to do so.
Yusuf moans, the back of his head hitting the door. His eyes finally fall shut as Robert nuzzles his cock through cloth then pulls down Yusuf’s pajama bottoms . . . with his teeth.
Okay, this is my life . . . but how is it my life? How am I this luck-oh, God!
For a while, there's no more thinking.
TBC