[Fic] Hand in hand is the only way to land, pt. 6
Title: Hand in hand is the only way to land
Author/Artist: sirona_gs and red_rahl
Team: ROMANCE!
Prompt: Completion
Word count: ~1,300 this part
Rating: R!
Warnings: A touch of angst, more fluff than you can shake a stick at.
Summary: In which there is a ending that is really a beginning.
Notes: This story is a (now completed) collaboration! Title from The Cure's Lovecats.
Artist's Notes: This has been such a wonderful experience and it has been truly an honor to work with sirona_gs!!! *can't believe it's all done*
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five
[art] by red_rahl
[text] by sirona_gs
Dinner turns into lunch turns into dinner again before Eames has time to panic about screwing things up. It's scary, how easy things are between him and Arthur, how he doesn't have to try and try to get it right, how it just is. When Arthur smiles at him from across the table, Eames feels on top of the world, invincible, like nothing can ever get him down again.
He worries this thing can't last. It's too easy, too natural, the way Arthur fits in his life with his animals and his shirts and his easy affection, his laughter and his lips and his hands, holding Eames' safe.
Eames has never had anything this easy in his life -- except for maybe Mal's instant and unshakable friendship. The thought gives him hope -- he and Mal have been inseparable ever since. Maybe he and Arthur can be the same.
Now that the weather is turning cooler, Eames has taken to wearing cardigans. He loves the feel of warm cotton on his skin, over his shirts, loves the colours, mustard yellow and light brown and deep red, reminding him of the last days of summer slipping into early autumn. Arthur makes a face at the colours, but he pillows his cheek on Eames' cardigan-clad shoulder with every sign of contentment, the reassuring weight of him settling Eames, pinning him in place until he can let go of his fears and just live. Mal would be proud.
If Eames' domain is cardigans, then surely Arthur is the king of sweaters. They are much more subdued than Eames' explosion of joyous colour, but they suit his slighter frame and darker hair to perfection, and he looks so painfully perfect in them that every time Eames sees him, spending time with Patrick or walking into Eames' bookshop or sipping at his drink in the restaurant, waiting for Eames to arrive, his chest squeezes and expands at the same time, and he can barely breathe for the realisation, again and again, that this is his; he's allowed--no, encouraged--to touch this man, to love him, to keep him. The smile that lights Arthur's face every time he spots Eames lurking in a doorway, frozen in space by the sight of Arthur there for him -- there is nothing Eames can do that will stop the pounding of his heart, the softening of his mouth, the need to close the distance between them in a few quick steps and kiss him, and touch his face, his arms, his back, slip careful, greedy fingers over arms bared by folded-back sleeves, familiarise himself with Arthur's skin again and again.
Time passes. Eames learns about Arthur's endearing obsession with specificity, and takes shameless advantage by describing to him, in detail, what he will do to him when they stumble into Arthur's flat after dinner and a film, where he would kiss him first, and second, and third, how he will slip his hand into Arthur's hair and tilt his head to kiss him deeper, how he will brace them with Arthur's back pressed to the wall, how he will slip a thigh between Arthur's legs falling open, how he will kiss that spot on his neck, yes, that one, as he rocks his hips forward, a tease and a promise all at once. And Arthur shudders in his seat next to Eames, eyes glazed, film long forgotten in favour of quite another reel showing behind his closed eyelids.
They don't often manage to sit through an entire film, except when it's one they both agree is quite spectacular. When it isn't, they make their own entertainment.
Arthur comes round to his flat one day when Eames is wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and wielding a duster with a frightening lack of dexterity. Even more incriminating, Queen is blasting out of Eames' stereo, and, alone at home, Eames has no compunction to singing along, quite well if he says so himself. He never thought he'd ever regret dropping a spare key into Arthur's hand and closing his fingers around it until he's executing a somewhat clumsy pirouette to come face to gleeful face with him, standing in the doorway with a grocery bag hanging from his hand. Eames feels his entire face burning with mortification, but all Arthur does is drop the bag, uncaring of where it lands, stalk forward and press Eames into the sofa, grinning into his mouth as he plies his lips open with his tongue, not like Eames is resisting once he feels Arthur's hands over his skin, burning hot and cooling him down at the same time.
Arthur makes him dinner one night, a month or so into this thing of theirs, shepherd's pie and apple crumble and Arthur, sitting across the table from him, eyes soft and fond and earnest, and it's the home that Eames never had, always wanted, never thought he would find outside Mal's unfailing loyalty.
Arthur asks him to move in that night. Eames closes his eyes and takes a leap of faith, trusting, knowing Arthur will be there to catch him.
They move his things in on a Saturday in November, the first chill of winter fogging the air coming out of their mouths and noses in a cloud of exertion. Arthur plans ahead for the 50-odd boxes of all of Eames' books packed up, and calls in a favour -- or so he says. The first Eames knows of it is answering a knock on the door and finding Ariadne on the other side, smiling winsomely up at him, flanked by a broad-shouldered blond man who squints at Eames as if trying to make him out without his glasses.
"Dominic Cobb," he introduces himself, offering Eames a huge hand to shake. "I work with Arthur as a contact for SPCA."
"Pleasure to meet you," Eames says.
Ariadne tugs him closer and plants a kiss on his cheek before pushing past him.
"Let's have it, then," she says. "Where's damange?"
Arthur, creeping up behind Eames, points to the tower of boxes in the living room.
"Good lord," Ariadne says faintly. Arthur grins.
There's the sound of a key turning in the lock, and then Mal's voice is filling the flat, bouncing off the bare walls.
"Eames? We're here," she yells from the hallway, and then she's in the door, beautiful and charming as ever, Yusuf's halo of curls following at her shoulder.
"Blimey," Yusuf says, eyeing the pile of boxes askance. "I don't remember there being so much crap when we moved you in."
"That was four years ago. A lot of books happen in four years," Eames says defensively. At his side, Arthur turns away to hide his face, but Eames can see the telltale shaking in his shoulders.
Mal strides into the cluttered room and almost trips over Derek, in heaven with so many people there to extract petting from, with claws if necessary. It isn't, since as soon as Ariadne clocks onto him it's a moot point. He purrs happily as she swings him into her arms and tickles his chin. When Eames looks away, he really cannot miss the startled look on Yusuf's face as he watches her. She grins up at him, and Yusuf actually steps back, blinking while a flash of pink dusts his cheekbones. Eames has to turn around to hide his smirk.
Introductions are made by both him and Arthur, and Eames watches in astonishment as Cobb takes one look at Mal and looks like he's been punched in the chest, while Mal smiles at him like Eames hasn't seen in quite some time. He looks at Arthur helplessly; Arthur looks back, just as bemused. Then his lips twitch, and a smile starts taking over his face like the sun dawning. Eames can't help but mirror it, happiness sharp and buoyant filling him to bursting, and he bumps his shoulder into Arthur's, and laces their fingers together, and holds on.
Author/Artist: sirona_gs and red_rahl
Team: ROMANCE!
Prompt: Completion
Word count: ~1,300 this part
Rating: R!
Warnings: A touch of angst, more fluff than you can shake a stick at.
Summary: In which there is a ending that is really a beginning.
Notes: This story is a (now completed) collaboration! Title from The Cure's Lovecats.
Artist's Notes: This has been such a wonderful experience and it has been truly an honor to work with sirona_gs!!! *can't believe it's all done*
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five
[art] by red_rahl
[text] by sirona_gs
Dinner turns into lunch turns into dinner again before Eames has time to panic about screwing things up. It's scary, how easy things are between him and Arthur, how he doesn't have to try and try to get it right, how it just is. When Arthur smiles at him from across the table, Eames feels on top of the world, invincible, like nothing can ever get him down again.
He worries this thing can't last. It's too easy, too natural, the way Arthur fits in his life with his animals and his shirts and his easy affection, his laughter and his lips and his hands, holding Eames' safe.
Eames has never had anything this easy in his life -- except for maybe Mal's instant and unshakable friendship. The thought gives him hope -- he and Mal have been inseparable ever since. Maybe he and Arthur can be the same.
Now that the weather is turning cooler, Eames has taken to wearing cardigans. He loves the feel of warm cotton on his skin, over his shirts, loves the colours, mustard yellow and light brown and deep red, reminding him of the last days of summer slipping into early autumn. Arthur makes a face at the colours, but he pillows his cheek on Eames' cardigan-clad shoulder with every sign of contentment, the reassuring weight of him settling Eames, pinning him in place until he can let go of his fears and just live. Mal would be proud.
If Eames' domain is cardigans, then surely Arthur is the king of sweaters. They are much more subdued than Eames' explosion of joyous colour, but they suit his slighter frame and darker hair to perfection, and he looks so painfully perfect in them that every time Eames sees him, spending time with Patrick or walking into Eames' bookshop or sipping at his drink in the restaurant, waiting for Eames to arrive, his chest squeezes and expands at the same time, and he can barely breathe for the realisation, again and again, that this is his; he's allowed--no, encouraged--to touch this man, to love him, to keep him. The smile that lights Arthur's face every time he spots Eames lurking in a doorway, frozen in space by the sight of Arthur there for him -- there is nothing Eames can do that will stop the pounding of his heart, the softening of his mouth, the need to close the distance between them in a few quick steps and kiss him, and touch his face, his arms, his back, slip careful, greedy fingers over arms bared by folded-back sleeves, familiarise himself with Arthur's skin again and again.
Time passes. Eames learns about Arthur's endearing obsession with specificity, and takes shameless advantage by describing to him, in detail, what he will do to him when they stumble into Arthur's flat after dinner and a film, where he would kiss him first, and second, and third, how he will slip his hand into Arthur's hair and tilt his head to kiss him deeper, how he will brace them with Arthur's back pressed to the wall, how he will slip a thigh between Arthur's legs falling open, how he will kiss that spot on his neck, yes, that one, as he rocks his hips forward, a tease and a promise all at once. And Arthur shudders in his seat next to Eames, eyes glazed, film long forgotten in favour of quite another reel showing behind his closed eyelids.
They don't often manage to sit through an entire film, except when it's one they both agree is quite spectacular. When it isn't, they make their own entertainment.
Arthur comes round to his flat one day when Eames is wearing nothing but a pair of boxer shorts and wielding a duster with a frightening lack of dexterity. Even more incriminating, Queen is blasting out of Eames' stereo, and, alone at home, Eames has no compunction to singing along, quite well if he says so himself. He never thought he'd ever regret dropping a spare key into Arthur's hand and closing his fingers around it until he's executing a somewhat clumsy pirouette to come face to gleeful face with him, standing in the doorway with a grocery bag hanging from his hand. Eames feels his entire face burning with mortification, but all Arthur does is drop the bag, uncaring of where it lands, stalk forward and press Eames into the sofa, grinning into his mouth as he plies his lips open with his tongue, not like Eames is resisting once he feels Arthur's hands over his skin, burning hot and cooling him down at the same time.
Arthur makes him dinner one night, a month or so into this thing of theirs, shepherd's pie and apple crumble and Arthur, sitting across the table from him, eyes soft and fond and earnest, and it's the home that Eames never had, always wanted, never thought he would find outside Mal's unfailing loyalty.
Arthur asks him to move in that night. Eames closes his eyes and takes a leap of faith, trusting, knowing Arthur will be there to catch him.
They move his things in on a Saturday in November, the first chill of winter fogging the air coming out of their mouths and noses in a cloud of exertion. Arthur plans ahead for the 50-odd boxes of all of Eames' books packed up, and calls in a favour -- or so he says. The first Eames knows of it is answering a knock on the door and finding Ariadne on the other side, smiling winsomely up at him, flanked by a broad-shouldered blond man who squints at Eames as if trying to make him out without his glasses.
"Dominic Cobb," he introduces himself, offering Eames a huge hand to shake. "I work with Arthur as a contact for SPCA."
"Pleasure to meet you," Eames says.
Ariadne tugs him closer and plants a kiss on his cheek before pushing past him.
"Let's have it, then," she says. "Where's damange?"
Arthur, creeping up behind Eames, points to the tower of boxes in the living room.
"Good lord," Ariadne says faintly. Arthur grins.
There's the sound of a key turning in the lock, and then Mal's voice is filling the flat, bouncing off the bare walls.
"Eames? We're here," she yells from the hallway, and then she's in the door, beautiful and charming as ever, Yusuf's halo of curls following at her shoulder.
"Blimey," Yusuf says, eyeing the pile of boxes askance. "I don't remember there being so much crap when we moved you in."
"That was four years ago. A lot of books happen in four years," Eames says defensively. At his side, Arthur turns away to hide his face, but Eames can see the telltale shaking in his shoulders.
Mal strides into the cluttered room and almost trips over Derek, in heaven with so many people there to extract petting from, with claws if necessary. It isn't, since as soon as Ariadne clocks onto him it's a moot point. He purrs happily as she swings him into her arms and tickles his chin. When Eames looks away, he really cannot miss the startled look on Yusuf's face as he watches her. She grins up at him, and Yusuf actually steps back, blinking while a flash of pink dusts his cheekbones. Eames has to turn around to hide his smirk.
Introductions are made by both him and Arthur, and Eames watches in astonishment as Cobb takes one look at Mal and looks like he's been punched in the chest, while Mal smiles at him like Eames hasn't seen in quite some time. He looks at Arthur helplessly; Arthur looks back, just as bemused. Then his lips twitch, and a smile starts taking over his face like the sun dawning. Eames can't help but mirror it, happiness sharp and buoyant filling him to bursting, and he bumps his shoulder into Arthur's, and laces their fingers together, and holds on.