Fic: There's got to be a morning after - Chapter 9b: Hound Dog
There's got to be a morning after
Chapter 9b: Hound Dog
Master post of all chapters here.
Wordcount: 30,000
Chapter 9b: Hound Dog
Arthur is lying face down on the new bed he'd purchased for the flat in Paris. It is considerably larger than the one previous, to Eames' great relief. "Sudheer thinks I should visit Aiden and offer a cash infusion into his business. In order to restart our relationship."
"I see." Eames settles in a chair. "And what do you think?"
"Don't know." Arthur's words are muffled by pillows. "Do you agree with him?"
"You know much more about Aiden and this situation than I."
"I know I fucked it up before." Arthur twists his head slightly, one eye peering up at Eames. "I might do it again."
"I can't offer you any answers," Eames says. "I can, however, offer you an excellent distraction if you'd like to take your mind off things."
"Is that distraction sex?"
"Arthur." Eames stands, palming Arthur's lovely round bottom through his trousers. "Does your mind ever stray from filth? I was about to offer you a French poetry reading."
"Ugh." Arthur rolls over so Eames is cupping his cock. "Please. Anything but that."
"Anything?"
Arthur smiles, a small one. "Are you going to make me regret this?"
"I don't know how many more depraved acts I can put you through," Eames says. "I'm running out of ideas."
Arthur's gaze is thoughtful. "Do you still want to fuck me?"
"Yes."
"I don't do it a lot. Bottoming, I mean."
"You don't like the way it feels?"
"Not really," Arthur says. "But maybe it hasn't been the right people or situations. One night stands and stuff."
"You and Sudheer never-"
"We did a few years ago and it was fine. But he's a lot smaller than you are."
"Ah," Eames says, feeling a petty surge of pride at that. "It wasn't terribly good my first go round until ten minutes in."
Arthur sits up and begins undoing the buttons of Eames' shirt. "Let's see if we can get there in five."
They undress each other, mapping terrain that's become familiar, welcoming. Arthur's not hard yet. Eames ducks down to give him some encouragement, coming up when Arthur asks whether it's easier if he's erect or after he's come.
"Depends on the person," Eames replies. "Some are much more relaxed after coming and others are oversensitive. I like it both ways, personally."
Rather than taking the easy bait for a joke, Arthur's brow furrows. "Let's get started now, then."
Arthur tosses a condom and lube on the mattress, spreading his legs a miniscule amount.
"A bit wider, please." Eames taps Arthur's thigh.
"Feels weird," Arthur mumbles as Eames slides a slicked finger along Arthur's cleft.
"It is odd at first," Eames agrees as he presses a finger gently against the rim of Arthur's hole. "It'll be easier if you relax."
Arthur takes a deep breath. "Yeah."
The ring of muscle relaxes slightly, but certainly not enough for Eames to press inwards with his fingertip. Eames bends forward to lick at Arthur's nipples, which seems to help after a minute or two.
"Maybe we should do something else-" Arthur sucks in a quick breath as Eames' finger slips inside. "What-"
"Step one." Eames works his finger further inwards gently. "I'm inside you."
"Do we move on to your cock now?"
"Let's see how you handle two fingers."
The second finger makes it in-barely-and Eames shudders internally at how hot Arthur is around his knuckles. It's easy to imagine that around his cock, to imagine moving back and forth in it. Eames crooks his fingers and forces himself to be patient.
Arthur's tense, mildly uncomfortable expression undergoes no change in reaction to Eames' movements.
Eames tries again.
Still nothing.
Eames shifts. His arm is beginning to cramp from the awkward angle. He rotates his wrist this way and that, but it isn't until he pulls his fingers out a bit that Arthur starts.
"Is that-" Arthur's hips shift.
"Good?" Eames asks as he finds a rhythm for stroking, cramping muscles be damned.
"Yeah," Arthur exhales. "Yeah, that's good."
Good, but not quite enough to make Arthur writhe in ecstasy, apparently. Eames removes his fingers and sets about rolling a condom onto his cock. "Are you ready?"
"Sure," Arthur says, not sounding entirely certain.
Eames hikes Arthur's right leg up, and lines himself up with Arthur's entrance. The first two tries end up jabbing Arthur's arse-cheeks, and Eames sighs as he takes his cock in hand to guide it. Clearly it's been a while for them both.
This does lead to the correct destination, which seems to have sealed off completely.
"Arthur," Eames says as he pokes ineffectually at the clamped-shut sphincter. "I need you to relax."
"I am relaxed," Arthur grits out through his teeth.
"Arthur," Eames repeats. "You could guard diamonds behind this thing."
Arthur snorts. "Pretty sure there are no diamonds in there. Only coal."
"What a lovely mental image, thank you," Eames says, unable to help snickering.
"Hey, you were the one that brought up diamonds hidden in my ass," Arthur says, and now he's snickering, too.
They're both so preoccupied with giggling like loons that neither notice when Eames' dick slips in-only the tip, but still.
"God, that's tight," Eames says as Arthur's arse squeezes the daylights out of his dick head, and not wholly in a good way.
"Feels weird. Full."
"Bear down," Eames advises, and at Arthur's blank expression, elaborates, "like you're using the toilet."
Arthur's face contorts in a rather odd manner. "Now it feels like I'm about to take a shit and something's stuck."
Eames leans back reflexively. "Well, don't actually take a shit."
"I'm not. I mean-I don't think I will." Arthur's frowning.
"If you don't relax, I can't move in any further."
"Then push."
"What? No, I can't force it. You'll tear."
"I can take it."
"I've no doubt you can." Eames puts a hand on Arthur's abdomen to prevent any sudden, ill-advised thrusting. "But I object to using blood as a lubricant. Highly unsanitary."
"Fuck it, Eames, we've come this far. We can't-" Arthur tries to push forward on Eames' cock, to no avail.
Eames winces as he pulls out-the too-tight pressure hadn't let up during this entire process-and strips off the condom. "We can try again later."
"I don't want to try again later." Arthur reaches for another condom. "I want to do it now."
"Well, I don't," Eames says, fondling his poor, slightly bruised dick. "You're too tense for this to be enjoyable."
"I told you to push past it. I can handle it."
"And I'm telling you that I won't do it this way." Eames says. "Now, will you fuck me? My dick is tired."
"From two seconds of work?" Arthur mutters, clearly sulking. "I'm not in the mood."
"Fine," Eames says, unperturbed. "Do you want to come on my face and chest?"
Despite himself, Arthur can't help but glance at Eames' chest. "No."
Eames straddles Arthur. "Not at all?"
"I told you I'm not in the mood."
"Very well." Eames takes his own dick and begins to stroke it leisurely. "I'll simply satisfy myself then."
"Right here?" Arthur asks when Eames makes no move to get up.
"I enjoy the view." Eames hums as he works himself up efficiently, more than halfway to climax already.
"This isn't going to work," Arthur says, lips parting as he stares at Eames' dick.
"You're right." Eames grinds his hips down until there's the brush of Arthur's gorgeous cock against his arse. A tantalizing hint of sensation. He's going to come all over Arthur's stubborn, beautiful face, his abdomen, his elegant neck; it's going to be outstanding.
Eames orgasms with a soft exhale. Ejaculate smears across Arthur's belly with traces all the way up to his chin.
Arthur's hard again. Eames can feel the length of him pressing upwards as he thumbs the milky fluid in Arthur's bellybutton. "Shall I go to sleep now?"
Arthur rolls them both until he's on top. He smears a hand in Eames' come. "Don't you dare."
The lube lands near Eames and Arthur reaches for another condom. Eames preps himself, lethargic and loose-limbed.
"It's so easy for you," Arthur touches Eames' spread thighs. "It doesn't bother you at all."
"Years of practice," Eames says and then adds, softening, "It's not a competition."
"You mean I can't win at sex?"
Eames climbs onto Arthur's lap, reaches down to guide Arthur's cock inside. "If you can make me come again, I'll declare you the winner of sex."
Arthur chuckles, some of the hard-edged tension bleeding from his body. He feels brilliant inside Eames, beneath him and around him. Arthur's thrusts are slow and measured, the muscles of his back flexing beneath Eames' palms.
Arthur claims Eames' mouth, lips soft and nearly apologetic. He doesn't make Eames climax again, though he does try. Eames kisses Arthur, gentles him through his orgasm, and falls asleep with Arthur still inside.
* * * * *
Arthur buries himself in work for three days solid. He shuts himself away after jogging with Eames in the morning and comes to bed late, after Eames is already asleep. They don't speak any further about Chicago, though Eames is certain Arthur's maintaining a watchful eye on Aiden's health across the Atlantic.
Eames finds ways to entertain himself in the meanwhile, getting in touch with some old bookie contacts in Paris. He's not sure how long Arthur's going to avoid decision-making, or whether the fact that they don't have a flight out means the decision's been made already.
Eames does miss having sex, though, since Arthur hasn't been in the mood-not even wanting to shower together. Troublingly, Eames misses talking with Arthur throughout the day even more.
Which is why it comes as something of a shock when Eames returns to the flat to find Arthur sitting on the chaise lounge, waiting for him.
"I've been thinking about the puppy play scene we'll be doing," Arthur says with no preamble. "We should talk about what the limits are and what sort of roles we'll be playing."
"Why hello, Arthur," Eames says, setting his takeaway dinner down on the coffee table. "And how are you doing today?"
"Been busy. Work." There are dark circles under Arthur's eyes; he looks haggard. He's also clad in sweatpants-designer sweatpants, but still the first pair of sweatpants Eames has ever seen him wear. "Have you had a chance to think about what you'd like to do?"
"I have a bit," Eames says, hedging. "You want to talk about it now?"
"Unless you're busy," Arthur says, half-standing before Eames shakes his head.
"Now is fine." Eames opens his bag and takes a seat on the far side of the chaise lounge. "I'll have my dinner if you don't mind. You want some?"
"McDonald's?" The corner of Arthur's mouth twitches. "The only things I like there are-"
"The chicken nuggets and the fries," Eames says, setting out them out on the table. "For you."
Arthur stares at the paper cartons for the moment, then shuffles forward to put a hand on Eames' knee. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." Eames unwraps his cheeseburger. Perhaps Arthur will table the-topic--for later in favor of eating.
"I've done some reading," Arthur says as he squeezes Eames' knee once and releases. "You'll be the puppy and I'll be the handler, right?"
Eames takes a huge bite of his cheeseburger as a wave of full-body embarrassment courses through him. "Yes."
"What sort of handler would you like me to be?" Arthur asks as he starts in on his chicken nuggets. "A stern disciplinarian? Or kind and affectionate?"
Eames chews and swallows slowly. He can feel the blush heating every corner of his face. "…kind."
"Then I'll reward a puppy for good behavior?"
Eames has to force the word out. "Yes."
"Will the rewards be things like petting and treats?"
"No treats." Eames pauses. "Petting, yes. But mostly-praise."
"Like telling you what a good boy you're being?" It's a surreal situation, talking to Arthur about this while he swallows a French fry and licks salt off his fingers. Somehow, despite the absurdity and mortifying conversation, Eames feels the faintest twitch in his cock at Arthur's words.
"Yes."
Arthur looks at Eames as if he knows. "Will the puppy be naughty?"
"No."
"No punishments, only praise." Arthur puts down his food and slides closer to Eames, who is intent on finishing his cheeseburger. "Will you be able to do that? Will you try to be good for me?"
Eames balls up the wrapper and averts his gaze. He hopes that this isn't Arthur's idea of a joke. "I don't know."
"Eames." Arthur touches the shell of Eames' ear, voice low and soothing. "It's okay to want to please me. I like that you want to."
Eames leans into the touch ever so slightly. "You're not going to take the piss out of me?"
"I won't make fun of you." Arthur takes Eames' right hand and presses a dry kiss to each knuckle. "I promise."
"I do want to. To try." Eames turns his head to nuzzle tentatively against Arthur's jaw, testing to see if it's allowed.
"You're going to be so good for me," Arthur murmurs as he kisses Eames, tasting of ketchup and salt and sweetness. "I know you will."
* * * * *
The next day, after they go jogging together and have first-rate sex in the shower, Eames steps outside to discover that his car has been washed and detailed. All traces of the scuff are gone.
Arthur's already left for the day, booked up with numerous meetings and networking coffees with contacts. Eames sends him a text message, a bit in awe at how stunning his Porsche looks.
Your welcome, Arthur replies. And then, I know it hasn't been easy lately. Thanks.
* * * * *
Eames is reading in bed when Arthur returns to the flat.
"Hi," Arthur says, walking into the bedroom. He's dressed in a full suit, hair slicked back. The exhaustion hasn't disappeared from his eyes.
"Hullo." Eames takes off his reading glasses-a concession to aging he only allowed after seeing how alluring Arthur was bespectacled--and lowers his book. "How was your day?"
"Meetings and conversations that went pretty well." Arthur undoes his cufflinks and drops them into a tray Eames designated as the 'cufflink tray' after stepping on a third stray silk knot in a week. "Received a few job offers but I didn't like the smell of them."
"Extractions?"
"One extraction. One militarization training for a bored billionaire." Arthur shrugs out of his shirt, all golden lines in the lamplight. "I passed."
"Do you want to continue working in dreamshare now?" Eames asks. "Or are you planning an early retirement?"
"I technically got back to dreamshare work a month ago. Did a couple of research gigs, background checks, that kind of thing." Arthur steps out of his trousers. "More than that? I'm not sure. Usually after a few weeks of lying low, I'm going stir crazy. But I've been enjoying the downtime."
Eames sets his book on the nightstand. "I wonder why that is."
"Yeah, I wonder." Arthur smiles at Eames, hovering at the side of the bed. "Care for some company?"
Eames flips back the covers. "You know I'm always up for company."
Arthur slides in and curls up against Eames' side. "Do you remember when I asked you whether it was possible to use inception to make someone love you?"
Eames pauses, the air growing heavier around them. "I do."
"In your professional opinion, could it be done?"
Eames looks at Arthur's dark head, his downcast gaze. He considers lying. "Yes, I believe it could be done."
"Would you do it?"
"If I felt I needed to," Eames says. "It wouldn’t be my first choice for a job, however."
"What if it were the only way to make it happen?" There's something raw in Arthur's voice. "What if you've tried everything else already?"
"I wouldn't judge someone for attempting it," Eames says quietly. "I would caution that even if inception took, results could prove unsatisfactory."
Arthur's quiet. "Aiden's not going to want to see me."
"Not even for the money?"
"Especially not for the money."
"Then don't offer it to him."
"If I don't have the money as an excuse to go, what reason will I have to see him?"
Eames rubs a thumb along Arthur's shoulder. "Is he open to any sort of reconciliation?"
"It doesn't seem like it, but what do I know." Arthur hooks his arm over Eames' waist. "Do you have any siblings?"
"There's an illegitimate half-sister by one of my father's mistresses, but you've done my background check. You know about her already."
"Yeah. It's different, though. Hearing you talk about things." Arthur's breath is soft against Eames' cheek. "Have you met her?"
"I saw her a few times. My father wired her mother money occasionally, and he brought me down to London as a cover to visit her every few years. We never spoke."
"You weren't curious about her?"
"Not particularly." Eames shrugs. "I believe she's married, now. Has a couple of tots."
"Did your mother ever meet her?"
"Once. My mother hated her-hated my father's mistresses, my father, the whole bloody situation. Wouldn't divorce, though. That's not how things were done back then."
"Your parents were pretty young when they got married, weren't they?"
"My mother was eighteen, my father nineteen." Eames chuckles dryly. "I was born two months after the wedding."
"I think my mom was in her early twenties when she had us. Never got married, though. I'm not sure why."
"Probably for the best," Eames says. "A terrible marriage is sheer misery for everyone forced to witness it."
"Probably." Arthur hooks his bony chin onto Eames' shoulder. "I bought two plane tickets to Chicago. But it's going to be shitty and I don't want to go."
"Well, if it all goes horribly wrong, I can always try topping again. Distract you with more atrocious sex."
Arthur laughs. "That was pretty bad. Though not your fault. Pretty sure the blame lies purely with me."
"There's a period of adjustment, that's all. Sometimes it takes a while to become comfortable enough to enjoy it."
"It took you ten minutes."
"I am a rare prodigy in many areas," Eames says haughtily while Arthur snorts.
Arthur sits up and traces a finger over Eames' crossed swords tattoo. "I love hearing you when you take my cock because you sound so-you sound like you fucking love it. And I want to feel that. I want to feel what it's like with you."
"It is incredible, feeling you inside me." Eames cradles Arthur's face in his hands, waits for him to make eye contact. "We can try again."
Arthur climbs on top of Eames and kisses him. "Not tonight," Arthur says as he reaches down to cup Eames' cock. "But soon."
* * * * *
"Where will we be staying?" Eames asks as he riffles through his various forms of identification. "Some of my personas are no longer welcome at US-based Marriott or Hyatt hotels."
"No hotel. I own a property that I bought through an agent. I can't tell you much more about it besides that it's a townhouse."
"Is it furnished or should I be expecting a sleeping bag?"
"There should be some furniture. I paid my agent to maintain the premises," Arthur says. "I gave him a budget and the money got spent."
Arthur's townhouse turns out to be in a quiet, residential neighborhood. It's nothing remarkable on the outside, unassuming when set in the context of a dozen buildings just like it.
The interior is spacious and littered with furniture from IKEA in luridly bright colors. There's a generic, mass-produced mandala tapestry pinned to the wall with thumbtacks. Everything smells faintly of stale marijuana.
"Is this agent still in your employ?" Eames asks as he wanders into the bedroom. There's a mattress on the floor with no bed-frame or sheets.
Arthur sighs.
* * * * * *
Eames goes jogging with Arthur at some insane hour of the morning. It's the absolute last thing he wants to do after an evening of greasy takeaway and sleeping on a mattress harder than concrete, but Arthur is practically vibrating with energy, a nervy live-wire in jogging shorts. As Eames automatically puts on the running shoes Arthur bought him several weeks ago, half-conscious, it occurs to him how well he's been trained over the past few months.
They jog through Lincoln Park, which is picturesque and filled with aggressive geese. Eames nearly has a finger bitten off when he passes one too closely. Arthur calls out, "Careful!" afterwards from about ten feet ahead, when it's of no use to Eames at all.
After the jog, they stop by a corner store for a random assortment of food (eggs, coffee, hot sauce, salt and pepper), and shower together. Arthur backs Eames up against the wall and sucks him off. Eames reciprocates with a handjob and wonders whether Aiden is bisexual or a repressed, married, gay. Straight seems biologically improbable.
"You want eggs?" Arthur asks afterwards, as he shaves and applies his twenty creams. "I think I saw a pan on the stove. I can scramble some."
"Scrambled eggs sound delicious," Eames says, though he's not certain that they do. Arthur's never cooked for him before.
In Paris, Arthur purchased all the necessary ingredients for sandwiches and left them for Eames to assemble as he chose. Who knows what sort of cook Arthur might be.
The answer proves to be: decent.
They eat the eggs while seated on green and yellow lawn-chairs with a crate serving as the table between them.
"You know I've never been to Chicago before," Eames says.
"I've only been here twice. Once was for a layover," Arthur says. "Aiden always wanted to live here, though."
"You spent time here as children?"
"Yeah, a few weeks. Did touristy shit, went to the aquarium." Arthur adds some hot sauce to his eggs. "My mom didn't want to go to the hassle of putting us into a new school system and we were old enough to go off on our own."
"What were you in town for?"
"Some convention. Mom talked her way into getting a stall to sell something to the convention-goers. Me and Aiden had the option of helping for eight hours or exploring the city on our own. Guess which we took." Arthur smiles wryly. "I was in charge of itinerary and directions."
Eames smiles back, unable to help himself. It's becoming a bloody tic. "You're the elder, then."
"I was born five minutes before Aiden, at 11:58PM. We technically have different birthdays."
A wisp of memory bubbles up: Arthur, drunk and miserable in Tokyo. Aiden's birthday. "What's he like? If you don't mind me asking."
"It's-fine. I mean, I dragged you all the way out here." Arthur moves a scraggly piece of egg to the edge of his plate. "He's married, has been for a while. Lives in a house with a white picket fence in the suburbs. Keisha-his wife-works at the post office."
"The picture of middle-class Americana."
"It's what he always wanted." Arthur pauses. "He has two kids, a boy and a girl."
"Have you met them?"
"No." Arthur's mouth twists, painfully. "It's funny because genetically, they're my children, too. Not that he'd want to hear that."
"Does he know that you can't…?"
"No. I never-he would say it's just another consequence of my decisions. To go into dreamshare. To participate in military experiments."
"You couldn't have known."
"He used to be my best friend." Arthur finishes eating the last piece of egg. "Sounds narcissistic, doesn't it? Being best friends with your identical twin."
"Genetics aside, you sound like vastly different people."
"We were. I've met twins who could read each others' minds because they had the same reactions to stuff, the same exact thoughts. Aiden and I were never like that." Arthur stands. "I should get these plates in the sink."
"Darling," Eames says, holding on to the plate when Arthur tries to take it. "I can wash up, if you'd like."
"No. I." Arthur blinks rapidly and takes a deep breath. "I need to put back the hot sauce anyway."
Eames relinquishes the plate and watches Arthur disappear into the kitchen. There's the clink of cheap dishware in the sink and then silence for five minutes. The water comes on eventually.
Arthur returns to the living room with his sleeves rolled up and a more composed expression. "I'm going shopping today. I need new clothes and, apparently, furniture. Anything you want me to pick up?"
"Tea," Eames says, wondering when Arthur's planning to speak to Aiden. Wondering if Arthur has a plan at all.
"Okay." Arthur says. "And I was thinking we could go out to dinner later. If you're not busy."
Eames inclines his head to one side. "My calendar appears to be clear."
"Then it's a date," Arthur replies, ears pink. "And maybe a symphony. After."
"Sounds serious," Eames says, sitting back in his lawn chair.
"It's not," Arthur replies gruffly. "I'll see you at five."
* * * * *
Eames goes back to sleep until mid-afternoon and is eventually roused by incredible hunger. He boils and devours some eggs, dresses, and sets off to explore the area.
There's a bodega within five minutes walk where he picks up a few basics: a newspaper, lube, condoms. He stops at a larger convenience store to buy cleaning supplies and returns to the townhouse.
The first thing he does upon reentry is take down that god-awful mandala tapestry. He then settles in a lawn chair to read the paper.
He circles a blurb on a disagreement Fischer-Morrow's board is having with its new CEO, Robert Fischer. Details are scanty, hardly conclusive in any way, but it's something. Arthur's probably already seen it online, but Eames leaves it open on the counter anyway.
He puts on rubber gloves and sets to cleaning the place. Despite having the appearance of a stoner bachelor pad, everything in the house is relatively well-maintained. No repairs or deep cleaning necessary. Even the layer of dust is thinner than the one Eames encountered at Mal's old flat.
After he's done, Eames runs to the liquor store and picks up a few bottles of wine. He passes a florist on the way back and pauses, considering, before heading inside.
Back at the house, Eames shaves, inspects whether his hair is thinning (no, thank god), and puts on the suit that Arthur likes most. By the time he steps out of the loo, Arthur has returned. He's supervising a team of movers unloading furniture and groceries.
"Floor models," Arthur says by way of explanation. "Might have some nicks and scratches, but this seemed easier."
Eames shrugs; he'd just as soon not be roped into assembling furniture.
After the movers are gone, they have a coffee table and full dining set, along with sheets and pillows.
"Hi," Arthur says.
"Hullo." Eames leans against the counter. Arthur looks harried, tired. Sexy as ever, though.
"You dressed up." Arthur looks away and back again, almost bashful. "Is that for tonight?"
"I hear I have a hot date that's going to wine and dine me."
Arthur does flush slightly at that. Eames sees it now, finally, this other side of Arthur. The one that loves all of this: getting dressed, flirting, going out. "Lucky guy, I guess."
"We'll see exactly how lucky, hm?" Eames says. "You should probably start getting ready. Wouldn't want to be late."
"Are you going to leave without me?" Arthur asks, a smile playing about his lips as he disappears into the bedroom to change. When he returns, he's in a deep green suit-one Eames has never seen before, must be new-and looks absolutely radiant.
"I have something for you," Eames says as he procures a white rose from behind his back. Arthur's face goes slack with surprise, and as Eames pins it in a jacket buttonhole, he says nothing. Throughout the evening, however, Eames catches Arthur thumbing the delicate petals with a secret smile, when he thinks no one is looking.
Arthur arranged for a driver in a sleek black Rolls Royce to take them around, which Eames takes a moment to admire before slipping inside. The chauffeur is quiet and professional, expressing no reaction when Arthur puts a hand on Eames' thigh and leaves it there.
The restaurant they go to is small and intimate, low lit with votives at every table. Arthur orders them a bottle of pinot grigio to split.
"The flat's really coming along," Eames says as he takes a piece of bread from the basket. "I look forward to sleeping on sheets tonight."
"Who says you'll be doing any sleeping?"
Eames glances at Arthur, who is buttering his bread demurely. "That's a rather presumptuous statement for a first date, wouldn't you say?"
"I'm just saying that I hope you don't have to get up early tomorrow. You're going to be pretty wrung out."
"Bold claims." Eames slips a foot out of his shoe and glides it up Arthur's left calf. Arthur inhales sharply and Eames smiles.
The waitress returns, and Eames amuses himself by working his foot up Arthur's leg as they place their orders.
"You know, I almost want to skip the entrée and get straight to the dessert," Arthur says once the waitress leaves, voice level, seemingly unaffected by Eames' foot pressed against his knee.
"Sometimes the best moment to appreciate a dessert is after you've had a truly excellent meal," Eames says, sliding his foot back down to Arthur's ankle. "Savor the meal, then the dessert."
"Why not jump straight to the good part, though?"
Eames looks up, into Arthur's eyes, his handsome face-momentarily clear of worries over Aiden, the stress of the past few days. Eames reaches across the table to touch Arthur's fingers, wrapped around the stem of his wineglass.
"This is the good part," Eames says.
* * * * *
The car picks them up after dinner and delivers them to the concert hall. The philharmonic is solid, and it's been some years since Eames listened to Brahms.
Eames settles into his seat comfortably, sinking into a state of half-listening and drowsing. Beside him, Arthur shifts and fidgets every few minutes, a restless sort of energy.
Eames touches Arthur's bouncing knee and murmurs, "You'll drown out the orchestra if you keep thinking so loudly."
The corners of Arthur's mouth turn up as he covers Eames' hand with his own, leg stilling. "Want to meet me in the bathroom during intermission?"
"There'll probably be a lot of people coming and going."
"We can stay later and skip the second half of the show." Arthur's grinning full-bore now, impish and startling.
"And here I thought you were a cultured man of arts and letters," Eames murmurs.
An elderly woman in front of them turns to glare at them with pursed lips, ending the conversation.
They hang round the washroom later, until the chimes go off and all the geriatric patrons shuffle back into the theater. Arthur drags Eames into a handicapped stall.
There's toilet paper and dribbles of liquid on the floor that Eames hopes are water. "I would," Eames says, "but the tile floor and my bad knee…"
Arthur sighs dramatically. "I take you out for a night on the town and buy you a fancy dinner…"
"I thought you were simply enjoying the pleasure of my company."
"I wouldn't object to enjoying it in some more specific ways."
Eames kisses Arthur, endlessly amused. "I'll let you fuck me later if you blow me now."
"I get to do all the work twice is what you're offering me?" Arthur replies, kisses becoming more heated as his hands roam over Eames' body.
Nobody ends up blowing anybody, alas, as a very displeased bathroom attendant starts knocking on the stall door.
They're escorted out of the building by disapproving ushers, and wait outside until the car comes back around. As they wait, Eames notices Arthur staring at him with an odd expression on his face.
"Is there a stain?" Eames asks, glancing down the front of his shirt. He checks the front of his jacket to be sure, but there doesn't appear to be any discoloration.
"No, it's--" Arthur's fingers flutter against Eames' collar for a moment. "You look nice. I don't think I said, before."
Eames smooths down his tie with a faint hint of pride. "Quite so."
Arthur leans forward to lay a peck against the corner of Eames' mouth. Behind them, an usher clears her throat loudly.
"Later," Eames murmurs, managing to restrain his mirth until they reach the backseat of the car.
"I don't think I'll be welcome back at that concert hall," Arthur says. He looks aroused and disheveled, unmistakably so.
"Donate a new wing and I'm sure they'll come round," Eames says and slumps back. "God, I haven't been thrown out of a place for public indecency in ages."
"We didn't even get to anything indecent."
"You're a terrible influence," Eames says, arm resting against Arthur's arm companionably.
"Oh sure. Before me, you were pure as the driven snow."
"Truly, I fear for my virtue whenever you're near." Eames presses the length of his leg against Arthur's.
When they reach the townhouse, Arthur makes a point of gallantly holding all the doors open for Eames.
"Enjoying the view, hm?" Eames says over his shoulder as he walks inside.
"It's the best," Arthur agrees, placing a gentlemanly hand on the small of Eames' back rather than his arse. "Would you like a cup of tea?"
"Are you offering me a literal cuppa or is that a euphemism I've not heard before?"
"Well, I can teabag you later if you want," Arthur says, smiling. "But I meant a literal cup of tea."
"I think I'm alright for now," Eames murmurs as he draws Arthur in for a kiss-sweet and romantic, the way Arthur secretly likes and would never, ever ask for.
* * * * *
"Ready to go jogging?" Arthur asks, nuzzling Eames' shoulder. It's far too early in the morning.
"I would be, but someone kept me up all night," Eames replies sleepily.
Eames can feel Arthur's grin against his neck. "I did, didn't I?"
"You wore me out." Eames rolls onto his back and opens his eyes halfway. "Now I am in need of restorative beauty sleep."
Arthur props his chin on Eames' chest. "I guess it wouldn't hurt to go a few hours later."
Eames pets Arthur's hair clumsily. "What a capital idea."
"See you in a bit," Arthur says, closing his eyes and tucking into Eames' side.
* * * * *
"I'm gonna make dinner," Arthur says. "Want to help?"
"Alright." On the way to the sink to wash his hands, Eames drops a brief kiss to the side of Arthur's mouth. "What are we making?"
"Bag salad and steak," Arthur replies. "Can you get the plates?"
They share the dressing packet that comes with the salad and each get a decent cut of rib-eye, because Arthur stopped in a butcher shop on a whim earlier. They still only have hot sauce, salt, and pepper as condiments, though, and the one pan.
"I heard about this gay club that's supposed to be pretty good," Arthur says. "It's called Cock 'n Load. And it has an attached hotel called Cock 'n Roll."
"Subtle. I'm guessing the rooms let by the hour?"
"They do," Arthur replies. "We should go out. I haven't been to a club in ages."
"But clubs are so very loud and full of people," Eames says. "Usually with nothing in their pockets worth picking other than condoms and narcotics laced with rat poison."
"If you come with me, we can dance together." The suggestive hand trailing down Eames' side leaves little confusion over what sort of dancing Arthur has in mind. Although it's an idea not without allure, Eames is unmoved.
"I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm a born and bred Englishman," Eames says, exaggerating his poshest drawl. "Which means that I'm genetically incapable of moving my body with any sort of musical rhythm."
"Because you're British, you can't dance," Arthur says, eyebrow as skeptical as Eames has ever seen it. "Seriously, that's what you're going with?"
"Much like our cuisine, it's a national failing. There's absolutely nothing to be done about it." Eames shakes his head. "Tragic, really."
"So the idea of grinding up against me in front of a sea of envious strangers holds absolutely no appeal for you?"
"Your lascivious displays always hold a tremendous appeal for me, darling. And if you'd ever like to put on some sort of private performance, I will be the most enthusiastic audience imaginable. But I've tried sex in all sorts of public venues and discovered that sort of exhibitionism isn't really to my taste."
"Maybe it's not about sex and exhibitionism," Arthur says, leaning forward. "Maybe I just want everyone to see me go home with the hottest guy in the club."
Eames feels his ego swell at that, and eyes Arthur speculatively. "Well played, Arthur."
"So you'll go?" Arthur asks, a smile spreading across his face that makes it virtually impossible for Eames to say anything but yes, of course I will.
* * * * *
It's been years-maybe decades, ugh--since Eames has willingly gone into a nightclub environment and he has no idea what appropriate dress is anymore. He flicks listlessly through his wardrobe options and then gives up.
"Arthur," Eames says as he wanders into the bathroom, shirtless, where Arthur appears to be individually arranging every hair on his head. "I haven't a thing to wear. I'm afraid you'll have to go on without me."
"I bought you an outfit. It's hanging in the closet and marked with your name," Arthur says, focused wholly on his reflection.
"You-what, really?" Eames pauses, waiting for Arthur to glance over and be enticed enough by Eames' naked flesh to abandon this whole expedition. No such luck.
Grumbling to himself, Eames hunts down the clothing Arthur purchased-as if he'd known with complete certainty that Eames would cave, the arrogant wanker-and puts it on. It's snug-snugger than Eames typically prefers his clothes.
The top is sleeveless, showing off his arms to great effect, and features a deep V-neck that reveals his chest hair. The leather trousers are so tight it's impossible to wear them with any sort of underwear, a fact Eames discovers after he's dragged them up over his bum and buttoned them. The lines of his boxers stand out in staggering and unsightly relief. Eames sighs as he peels them down, strips off his boxers, and forces the leather back on.
Despite the hassle, the trousers do make his arse look absolutely incredible.
After he's finished adjusting his cock and balls (not much breathing room for either), he wanders back into the loo where Arthur is primping. He's wearing his hair in waves, gelled to hold their shape but not his usual slicked back style. His eyebrows are perfectly sculpted, skin flawless.
"You look fucking fantastic," Arthur says as he surveys Eames appreciatively. "Turn around so I can see you from behind."
"You're making me feel like a piece of meat," Eames complains as he allows Arthur a three-hundred and sixty view of him.
"You love it." Arthur gives Eames' arse a quick grope. "Now I gotta change."
"You look fine."
"Fine's not going to cut it," Arthur says. "Besides, I can't go out with you looking like that while I'm dressed like this."
What Arthur ends up putting on is nothing like what he put Eames in: a red polo shirt and a pair of dark slacks.
"Are you serious?" Eames demands, indignant. Upon closer inspection, he can see that the polo is meticulously fitted to Arthur's torso, short sleeve hitting at the perfect length to highlight Arthur's biceps. "I'm trussed up like a show pony and that's what you're wearing?"
"I'm going out to show you off," Arthur replies as he eases into the slacks. Once he has them on, Eames is forced to change his tune a bit; the trousers are tight enough to reveal the shape of Arthur's cock pressed along his right thigh.
"These are obscene," Eames murmurs, compelled to reach out and stroke the outline of Arthur's dick through the cloth. He feels a rather strong urge to put his mouth over what he stroked and contemplates whether Arthur would let him.
"Save it for later," Arthur says with a small, smug smile. "We've got all night."
"Must we go out?" Eames cups Arthur's marvelously firm arse in his hands. "Can't we stay in and enjoy ourselves?"
"We enjoy ourselves every day. Sometimes multiple times a day," Arthur says, unmoved. "It's one night. For a few hours."
Eames heaves a sigh and allows his lower lip to project slightly. He sidles closer to Arthur-who smells delicious, with a hint of spiced cologne-and inhales deeply enough for his chest to rise.
Arthur's gaze flies from Eames' mouth to his pecs before he steps back and away from Eames. "No. We're going out. I'm not going to let you work me up before we even leave."
"But-"
"We're leaving now." Arthur reaches down to adjust his cock with a wince. "Before I lose all circulation down here."
* * * * *
The Cock 'n Load is like every other gay nightclub Eames has ever been in: a dark and decorated place for men to prowl for fresh meat. He and Arthur are definitely grade A quality, considering the way all heads swivel as they enter, eyes removing what little clothing both of them are wearing. Eames supposes he doesn't hate the attention.
Arthur puts a possessive hand at the center of Eames' chest and leaves it there. "I want to dance. I don't suppose you'd care to join me?"
"Aren't you going to buy me a drink first?" Eames asks. "I don't know what sort of man you think I am."
"A man who'll be getting free drinks all night, I’m sure," Arthur replies dryly, glancing round at the numerous parties staring them down. "Don't take off without me, okay? I'm planning to fuck you until you scream later tonight."
"Promises, promises," Eames says as he slips away from Arthur, a shiver of arousal at his words.
Eames sets up shop at the bar. He orders himself a drink, which comes with a colorful paper umbrella and the bartender's number scrawled on the napkin. He takes note of both it and the bartender-a twinky little thing who winks at him before going to serve a patron at the other side of the bar-and shrugs, leaning against the counter.
All around the room people are making eyes at Eames, some more blatant and aggressive than others. The first person to approach, however, is a blond younger than Tansy.
"Hey," the teenager says, with bravado he probably thinks is an effective substitute for confidence. "Can I buy you a drink?"
"How old are you?" Eames asks, point blank.
"What kind of question is that?" The teenager blinks. "I'm twenty-one."
Eames gives him a bored look. "How old are you, really?"
"Are you carding me? Because I can show-"
"There's no need to strain yourself. You can keep your fake license in your wallet," Eames says. "I'm not the police and I don't work for the bar. I merely like to know who I'm dealing with."
"I'm-" the teenager swallows. "Nineteen. Are you going to tell anyone?"
"No, but I'm going to give you a piece of free advice and send you on your way," Eames says. "Use a condom. Run along now."
Eames turns in a clear dismissal, and the teenager stalks off, muttering, "You're not that hot anyway."
It's a matter of minutes before another man approaches, this one older and more suited to Eames' taste. "Hey."
"Hey yourself," Eames says, taking the man in: tall, thin, handsome-not as handsome as Arthur, but few men are. Nice mouth, though.
"What's your name?"
"Milo," Eames says. "Yours?"
"Trey." Trey smiles, rows of perfect white teeth arranged in the hallmark of past orthodontics. "Come here often?"
Eames raises an eyebrow at the line, but Trey's good looks and swagger are probably enough to let him get away with lines on most nights. "Passing through."
"Out-of-towner, huh?" Trey leans in. "Interested in a tour? My place isn't too far from here and I could show you some… sights."
Even if he's not as visually arresting as Arthur, Trey could prove an entertaining diversion. "I was thinking about staying a bit more local, to be honest," Eames says, glancing meaningfully in the direction of the bathroom.
Trey opens his mouth to speak. Eames never gets a chance to hear what he might have said because Arthur appears and steps neatly in front of Trey. "Hey."
"Hello," Eames replies, wondering if that's the universally agreed upon opening volley for gay pick-up these days.
"Is this your first time here?" Arthur asks Eames, blatantly ignoring Trey.
"Yes, it is," Eames replies, wondering if this is the start of a new game.
"Thought so." Arthur leans in. "Guess I found myself a virgin."
Eames raises an eyebrow. "It's been quite a while since someone accused me of that."
"Hey," Trey says, voice no longer friendly. "Milo and I were talking."
"Hey," Arthur replies, almost mocking. "Fuck off."
"Now now," Eames intercedes as the glares begin to get more heated. Tempting though it is to watch this all play out, he can't recall whether Arthur pulls his fairly lethal punches while brawling on the street, and Eames doesn't want to flee yet another city in the middle of the night in case Arthur doesn't. "Trey, it was lovely to meet you, but it appears my dance card's been filled. Another evening, perhaps."
Trey wanders off, scowling, while Arthur smirks. "You've got good taste."
"I believe that’s yet to be determined."
Arthur grins. "I like a challenge. What's your name?"
"Milo," Eames replies. "And yours?"
"Tristan."
"Alright, Tristan." Eames runs his fingertips down Tristan's arm. "Tell me, what brings you here?"
"I wanted to meet some people. Why do you ask?"
"You don't seem like the usual clientele for this sort of establishment," Eames says. "And I am certain someone like you has no trouble meeting people."
Tristan gives Eames a long, considering look. "Sometimes I like to lose myself in the music," he says, a more honest answer. "Dance and forget about everything going on outside."
"Is there something in particular you're trying to forget?"
"Doesn't everyone have something?" Tristan replies. "Something they wish they could have done differently? Something they'd do anything to go back and change if they could?"
Eames takes a sip of his drink. "I should inform you now that if you're trying to pick me up using a wounded bird persona, it's not going to work."
Tristan lets out a startled laugh. "No? My vulnerability isn't working for you?"
"Not in the least. I find emotions completely distasteful."
"Then let's skip the talking and get to the dancing."
Eames lowers his voice. "Couldn't we skip the dancing as well?"
"Don't worry." Tristan leans in, near enough for his lips to brush Eames' earlobe. "Dancing's the best foreplay and a hell of a lot of fun if done right."
Tristan leads Eames to the center of the dance floor without waiting for a response. It's a tangle of hot, sweaty bodies all around them, gyrating to the music with more than a few interested stares pointed their way. Tristan ignores everyone except for Eames.
"The bass is like a heartbeat," Tristan says. He takes Eames' hand and places it on his chest. "You can feel it, can't you?"
Tristan's heartbeat under Eames' palm is strong, steady-seeming to pulse in time with the music surrounding them. Eames slides closer, the world narrowing to Tristan's dark eyes. "Yes."
Tristan slots a leg between Eames' legs, hips grinding slow and dirty. "Move with me."
Eames doesn't know how long they dance together, a crush of people around them, the bass thrumming through their bodies. Tristan loops an arm around Eames' neck, close enough to rub his growing erection against Eames'. Eames allows his palms to slide up and down Tristan's back, over the curve of his shoulder-blades and down to the swell of his arse.
"I think I'm done with foreplay," Eames says, biting gently at Tristan's ear. "I heard there's a hotel attached to this place. Interested?"
They head towards the Cock 'n Roll via the conveniently attached entrance to the club and book a room for the whole night.
The hotel room is Spartan. Aside from the nightstand and a lamp, the only other furniture is the large bed.
They make out for a bit, hands roaming over each others' bodies. Eames has to admit that Tristan has a point-Eames' whole body is thrumming with a pleasant level of arousal, warm and loose and sensual from the dancing.
Peeling them both out of tight, sweaty clothing proves challenging though achievable with great persistence. The fucking that follows is relatively brief, but an enjoyable climax to a surprisingly pleasant evening.
Tristan is the first to get washed and dressed. "The room's paid up for the rest of the night if you want to relax, watch some TV. All yours," he says.
Eames smothers a smile. "Thank you. That's very generous of you."
"Yeah, sure, no problem." Tristan smooths his hair back and rolls his shoulders. "You were great. I had a great time."
"As did I."
"You want some money for a cab? Because I could--"
"I think I'm all set," Eames says. He goes to wash up and when he steps out of the shower, he finds that Tristan is gone. There are a few crisply laid out notes on the bed.
* * * * *
The next morning, Eames meets up with Arthur for brunch. Arthur's dressed and styled as he normally is, in a button down shirt and sport coat.
"Sleep well?" Arthur asks after they've sat down.
"Very," Eames says. "And you?"
"Yeah, I about passed out. How about you? Did you-have a good night?" Arthur's studying his menu with great interest.
"I was out rather late. At a disreputable gay nightclub I'd heard about."
"That's-" Arthur clears his throat. "That doesn't really sound like your scene. A gay nightclub, I mean."
"It wasn't. Thankfully, I didn't have to stay for very long."
"You met someone, huh?" Arthur's still staring at his menu. "How was he? I mean, did you-"
"Oh, he was excellent," Eames says, with as straight a face as he can manage. "Quite chivalrous. He paid for the hotel room and left me cab fare after."
"Sounds like a pretty considerate guy. For a one night stand, I mean."
"Yes, and his cock was absolutely huge. Largest I've ever seen," Eames says. "I don't know how he fit it inside his trousers. It barely fit inside me."
Arthur's grinning behind his menu now, delight impossible to contain. "Yeah?"
"It was life-changing," Eames says, solemnly. "Yesterday ruined me for anyone else."
Arthur begins to laugh, doubling over in helpless peals. His face is scrunched up in an uncomplicated joy that takes ten years off, dissolves the worries and the stress of the past few weeks, and makes something warm well up inside Eames.
* * * * *
"Even with flowers, this place is depressing," Federico says as he plucks the petals from a sprig of heather.
"You hardly need to tell me that," Eames replies, surveying the landscape. More heather is in bloom now, tinting patches of the estate mauve.
"Have you thought about redecorating?"
"Why?"
"You spend a lot of time here," Federico says. "Maybe make it less bleak. For both of us."
"My hope is to eventually cease having these dreams at all. I could do without all the prodding from my subconscious."
"Where do you want these dreams to be instead?" Federico says, blithely ignoring Eames' statements. "On a beach with naked women fanning you?"
"That would be a start. If I must continue to endure these lectures, I'd prefer it to be while I'm sipping alcohol out of a hollowed coconut."
"A man can dream, eh?" Federico winks and Eames rolls his eyes.
"By the way, I spoke to Arthur about the puppy play and he agreed to do it. Are you now appeased, subconscious?"
"I could not be happier," Federico says. "Though I wonder how Arthur is doing."
"What do you mean?" Unbidden, the image of Arthur laughing, eyes scrunched up in unrestrained glee comes to mind. Eames tries to push it away, but the image lingers stubbornly, and rouses an uncomfortable amount of emotion. "He's been in excellent spirits these past few days."
"Has he?"
"Of course. There's been sex and-dates, and-"
"And no talk of why you came to Chicago." Federico twirls the stem of his heather, stripped bare of all its petals. "Do you think Arthur's forgotten?"
A tiny part of Eames had hoped, furtively, that perhaps there would be enough to cause Arthur to forget. To be completely preoccupied. But of course Arthur isn't that sort of man who forgets anything.
"Do you think everything we've been doing together has merely been an elaborate set of avoidance tactics?" Eames asks, an unpleasant sinking sensation in his gut.
"That's an excellent question, isn't it?" Federico replies.
* * * * *
Eames' trousers shrink in the wash. He puts them on with an annoyed sigh, and notices they fit rather snugly round the bottom. He wanders into the living room where Arthur is installing a newly purchased big screen television, and feels Arthur's eyes track him as he passes.
"I like those pants on you," Arthur says.
"Thank you," Eames says, pleased.
"Maybe you should wear all your pants that tight." Arthur sets down his drill and wipes the sheen of sweat from his brow. "Is the TV centered? I've been staring at it so long my eyes are crossing."
"I believe it is," Eames says. He forces himself to take a deep breath. "Arthur, what are we doing here?"
"Hanging a TV?"
"And after that?"
"We're going to a museum. And then getting dinner and maybe seeing a show."
"Arthur," Eames says quietly. "Is this why we came to Chicago?"
Arthur falters. "Are you not enjoying Chicago? I'm working on getting more furniture-"
"I do appreciate the new bed. That old mattress was hell on my back," Eames says. "And I'll go on as many planned outings as you'd care to. I'm merely wondering if we're losing sight of why you wanted to come here in the first place."
Arthur stares down at the floor. "Do we have to talk about it?"
Eames touches the back of Arthur's neck, the vulnerable curve and soft hair there. "If you'd like. Otherwise, no."
Arthur leans into the caress. "Aiden doesn't want to see me."
"Have you spoken with him?"
"I emailed him to say I was back in the US. He hasn't responded."
"Where is he now?"
"A hospital not too far from here. I have the floor plans and his room location."
"I think visiting hours should suffice," Eames says, gently. "Do you want to see him?"
"I want to go back to Paris," Arthur says miserably. "I shouldn't do that, though, should I?"
"Well, we came all this way," Eames says. "Do you really want to go back now?"
"No." Arthur exhales slowly. "There are visiting hours tomorrow afternoon."
"Tomorrow, then."
"Yeah." Arthur echoes unenthusiastically. "Tomorrow."
* * * * *
"This is it." Together, Arthur and Eames stare up at the forbidding stone hospital exterior.
Eames opens his mouth to speak, but before he can, Arthur says, "Will you come in with me?" Arthur has his poker face on, but he's pale, right toe tapping a restless beat on the concrete.
Eames wants to say no. Few things in the world sound worse than becoming any more involved in the drama of Arthur's relentlessly complicated personal life.
"Alright."
"Thank you," Arthur says, expression not changing. He touches the back of Eames' hand.
They sign in at the front desk. One of the nurses visibly starts upon seeing Arthur. "Are you-"
"He's my twin brother, yeah," Arthur says, summoning up a polite smile.
"He's in room 122," the nurse says, recovering quickly. "He's been a trooper."
Eames walks Arthur to the half-open door. Arthur stares at it in silence, then abruptly pivots on his heel. "I can't do this."
"What?" Eames says, catching Arthur's arm when he begins to walk away. "Are you serious?"
"This was a bad idea. It is a bad idea. I shouldn't have come."
"Arthur-"
"He's not going to forgive me for-"
"Is someone out there?" a voice calls out, as deep and sonorous as Arthur's. The enunciation is not quite as sharp, vowels softer.
Arthur freezes and then whispers, "Will you come with me? I can't-I can't do this alone."
There's a surreal quality to the situation, to the idea of finally meeting Arthur's identical twin brother under circumstances like this. Yet all Eames can think of is the panicked, pleading expression on Arthur's face, the way he takes Eames' hand once more. "Please."
Eames relents, trailing behind Arthur into the room.
Next: Chapter 9, Part c
Chapter 9b: Hound Dog
Master post of all chapters here.
Wordcount: 30,000
Chapter 9b: Hound Dog
Arthur is lying face down on the new bed he'd purchased for the flat in Paris. It is considerably larger than the one previous, to Eames' great relief. "Sudheer thinks I should visit Aiden and offer a cash infusion into his business. In order to restart our relationship."
"I see." Eames settles in a chair. "And what do you think?"
"Don't know." Arthur's words are muffled by pillows. "Do you agree with him?"
"You know much more about Aiden and this situation than I."
"I know I fucked it up before." Arthur twists his head slightly, one eye peering up at Eames. "I might do it again."
"I can't offer you any answers," Eames says. "I can, however, offer you an excellent distraction if you'd like to take your mind off things."
"Is that distraction sex?"
"Arthur." Eames stands, palming Arthur's lovely round bottom through his trousers. "Does your mind ever stray from filth? I was about to offer you a French poetry reading."
"Ugh." Arthur rolls over so Eames is cupping his cock. "Please. Anything but that."
"Anything?"
Arthur smiles, a small one. "Are you going to make me regret this?"
"I don't know how many more depraved acts I can put you through," Eames says. "I'm running out of ideas."
Arthur's gaze is thoughtful. "Do you still want to fuck me?"
"Yes."
"I don't do it a lot. Bottoming, I mean."
"You don't like the way it feels?"
"Not really," Arthur says. "But maybe it hasn't been the right people or situations. One night stands and stuff."
"You and Sudheer never-"
"We did a few years ago and it was fine. But he's a lot smaller than you are."
"Ah," Eames says, feeling a petty surge of pride at that. "It wasn't terribly good my first go round until ten minutes in."
Arthur sits up and begins undoing the buttons of Eames' shirt. "Let's see if we can get there in five."
They undress each other, mapping terrain that's become familiar, welcoming. Arthur's not hard yet. Eames ducks down to give him some encouragement, coming up when Arthur asks whether it's easier if he's erect or after he's come.
"Depends on the person," Eames replies. "Some are much more relaxed after coming and others are oversensitive. I like it both ways, personally."
Rather than taking the easy bait for a joke, Arthur's brow furrows. "Let's get started now, then."
Arthur tosses a condom and lube on the mattress, spreading his legs a miniscule amount.
"A bit wider, please." Eames taps Arthur's thigh.
"Feels weird," Arthur mumbles as Eames slides a slicked finger along Arthur's cleft.
"It is odd at first," Eames agrees as he presses a finger gently against the rim of Arthur's hole. "It'll be easier if you relax."
Arthur takes a deep breath. "Yeah."
The ring of muscle relaxes slightly, but certainly not enough for Eames to press inwards with his fingertip. Eames bends forward to lick at Arthur's nipples, which seems to help after a minute or two.
"Maybe we should do something else-" Arthur sucks in a quick breath as Eames' finger slips inside. "What-"
"Step one." Eames works his finger further inwards gently. "I'm inside you."
"Do we move on to your cock now?"
"Let's see how you handle two fingers."
The second finger makes it in-barely-and Eames shudders internally at how hot Arthur is around his knuckles. It's easy to imagine that around his cock, to imagine moving back and forth in it. Eames crooks his fingers and forces himself to be patient.
Arthur's tense, mildly uncomfortable expression undergoes no change in reaction to Eames' movements.
Eames tries again.
Still nothing.
Eames shifts. His arm is beginning to cramp from the awkward angle. He rotates his wrist this way and that, but it isn't until he pulls his fingers out a bit that Arthur starts.
"Is that-" Arthur's hips shift.
"Good?" Eames asks as he finds a rhythm for stroking, cramping muscles be damned.
"Yeah," Arthur exhales. "Yeah, that's good."
Good, but not quite enough to make Arthur writhe in ecstasy, apparently. Eames removes his fingers and sets about rolling a condom onto his cock. "Are you ready?"
"Sure," Arthur says, not sounding entirely certain.
Eames hikes Arthur's right leg up, and lines himself up with Arthur's entrance. The first two tries end up jabbing Arthur's arse-cheeks, and Eames sighs as he takes his cock in hand to guide it. Clearly it's been a while for them both.
This does lead to the correct destination, which seems to have sealed off completely.
"Arthur," Eames says as he pokes ineffectually at the clamped-shut sphincter. "I need you to relax."
"I am relaxed," Arthur grits out through his teeth.
"Arthur," Eames repeats. "You could guard diamonds behind this thing."
Arthur snorts. "Pretty sure there are no diamonds in there. Only coal."
"What a lovely mental image, thank you," Eames says, unable to help snickering.
"Hey, you were the one that brought up diamonds hidden in my ass," Arthur says, and now he's snickering, too.
They're both so preoccupied with giggling like loons that neither notice when Eames' dick slips in-only the tip, but still.
"God, that's tight," Eames says as Arthur's arse squeezes the daylights out of his dick head, and not wholly in a good way.
"Feels weird. Full."
"Bear down," Eames advises, and at Arthur's blank expression, elaborates, "like you're using the toilet."
Arthur's face contorts in a rather odd manner. "Now it feels like I'm about to take a shit and something's stuck."
Eames leans back reflexively. "Well, don't actually take a shit."
"I'm not. I mean-I don't think I will." Arthur's frowning.
"If you don't relax, I can't move in any further."
"Then push."
"What? No, I can't force it. You'll tear."
"I can take it."
"I've no doubt you can." Eames puts a hand on Arthur's abdomen to prevent any sudden, ill-advised thrusting. "But I object to using blood as a lubricant. Highly unsanitary."
"Fuck it, Eames, we've come this far. We can't-" Arthur tries to push forward on Eames' cock, to no avail.
Eames winces as he pulls out-the too-tight pressure hadn't let up during this entire process-and strips off the condom. "We can try again later."
"I don't want to try again later." Arthur reaches for another condom. "I want to do it now."
"Well, I don't," Eames says, fondling his poor, slightly bruised dick. "You're too tense for this to be enjoyable."
"I told you to push past it. I can handle it."
"And I'm telling you that I won't do it this way." Eames says. "Now, will you fuck me? My dick is tired."
"From two seconds of work?" Arthur mutters, clearly sulking. "I'm not in the mood."
"Fine," Eames says, unperturbed. "Do you want to come on my face and chest?"
Despite himself, Arthur can't help but glance at Eames' chest. "No."
Eames straddles Arthur. "Not at all?"
"I told you I'm not in the mood."
"Very well." Eames takes his own dick and begins to stroke it leisurely. "I'll simply satisfy myself then."
"Right here?" Arthur asks when Eames makes no move to get up.
"I enjoy the view." Eames hums as he works himself up efficiently, more than halfway to climax already.
"This isn't going to work," Arthur says, lips parting as he stares at Eames' dick.
"You're right." Eames grinds his hips down until there's the brush of Arthur's gorgeous cock against his arse. A tantalizing hint of sensation. He's going to come all over Arthur's stubborn, beautiful face, his abdomen, his elegant neck; it's going to be outstanding.
Eames orgasms with a soft exhale. Ejaculate smears across Arthur's belly with traces all the way up to his chin.
Arthur's hard again. Eames can feel the length of him pressing upwards as he thumbs the milky fluid in Arthur's bellybutton. "Shall I go to sleep now?"
Arthur rolls them both until he's on top. He smears a hand in Eames' come. "Don't you dare."
The lube lands near Eames and Arthur reaches for another condom. Eames preps himself, lethargic and loose-limbed.
"It's so easy for you," Arthur touches Eames' spread thighs. "It doesn't bother you at all."
"Years of practice," Eames says and then adds, softening, "It's not a competition."
"You mean I can't win at sex?"
Eames climbs onto Arthur's lap, reaches down to guide Arthur's cock inside. "If you can make me come again, I'll declare you the winner of sex."
Arthur chuckles, some of the hard-edged tension bleeding from his body. He feels brilliant inside Eames, beneath him and around him. Arthur's thrusts are slow and measured, the muscles of his back flexing beneath Eames' palms.
Arthur claims Eames' mouth, lips soft and nearly apologetic. He doesn't make Eames climax again, though he does try. Eames kisses Arthur, gentles him through his orgasm, and falls asleep with Arthur still inside.
* * * * *
Arthur buries himself in work for three days solid. He shuts himself away after jogging with Eames in the morning and comes to bed late, after Eames is already asleep. They don't speak any further about Chicago, though Eames is certain Arthur's maintaining a watchful eye on Aiden's health across the Atlantic.
Eames finds ways to entertain himself in the meanwhile, getting in touch with some old bookie contacts in Paris. He's not sure how long Arthur's going to avoid decision-making, or whether the fact that they don't have a flight out means the decision's been made already.
Eames does miss having sex, though, since Arthur hasn't been in the mood-not even wanting to shower together. Troublingly, Eames misses talking with Arthur throughout the day even more.
Which is why it comes as something of a shock when Eames returns to the flat to find Arthur sitting on the chaise lounge, waiting for him.
"I've been thinking about the puppy play scene we'll be doing," Arthur says with no preamble. "We should talk about what the limits are and what sort of roles we'll be playing."
"Why hello, Arthur," Eames says, setting his takeaway dinner down on the coffee table. "And how are you doing today?"
"Been busy. Work." There are dark circles under Arthur's eyes; he looks haggard. He's also clad in sweatpants-designer sweatpants, but still the first pair of sweatpants Eames has ever seen him wear. "Have you had a chance to think about what you'd like to do?"
"I have a bit," Eames says, hedging. "You want to talk about it now?"
"Unless you're busy," Arthur says, half-standing before Eames shakes his head.
"Now is fine." Eames opens his bag and takes a seat on the far side of the chaise lounge. "I'll have my dinner if you don't mind. You want some?"
"McDonald's?" The corner of Arthur's mouth twitches. "The only things I like there are-"
"The chicken nuggets and the fries," Eames says, setting out them out on the table. "For you."
Arthur stares at the paper cartons for the moment, then shuffles forward to put a hand on Eames' knee. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." Eames unwraps his cheeseburger. Perhaps Arthur will table the-topic--for later in favor of eating.
"I've done some reading," Arthur says as he squeezes Eames' knee once and releases. "You'll be the puppy and I'll be the handler, right?"
Eames takes a huge bite of his cheeseburger as a wave of full-body embarrassment courses through him. "Yes."
"What sort of handler would you like me to be?" Arthur asks as he starts in on his chicken nuggets. "A stern disciplinarian? Or kind and affectionate?"
Eames chews and swallows slowly. He can feel the blush heating every corner of his face. "…kind."
"Then I'll reward a puppy for good behavior?"
Eames has to force the word out. "Yes."
"Will the rewards be things like petting and treats?"
"No treats." Eames pauses. "Petting, yes. But mostly-praise."
"Like telling you what a good boy you're being?" It's a surreal situation, talking to Arthur about this while he swallows a French fry and licks salt off his fingers. Somehow, despite the absurdity and mortifying conversation, Eames feels the faintest twitch in his cock at Arthur's words.
"Yes."
Arthur looks at Eames as if he knows. "Will the puppy be naughty?"
"No."
"No punishments, only praise." Arthur puts down his food and slides closer to Eames, who is intent on finishing his cheeseburger. "Will you be able to do that? Will you try to be good for me?"
Eames balls up the wrapper and averts his gaze. He hopes that this isn't Arthur's idea of a joke. "I don't know."
"Eames." Arthur touches the shell of Eames' ear, voice low and soothing. "It's okay to want to please me. I like that you want to."
Eames leans into the touch ever so slightly. "You're not going to take the piss out of me?"
"I won't make fun of you." Arthur takes Eames' right hand and presses a dry kiss to each knuckle. "I promise."
"I do want to. To try." Eames turns his head to nuzzle tentatively against Arthur's jaw, testing to see if it's allowed.
"You're going to be so good for me," Arthur murmurs as he kisses Eames, tasting of ketchup and salt and sweetness. "I know you will."
* * * * *
The next day, after they go jogging together and have first-rate sex in the shower, Eames steps outside to discover that his car has been washed and detailed. All traces of the scuff are gone.
Arthur's already left for the day, booked up with numerous meetings and networking coffees with contacts. Eames sends him a text message, a bit in awe at how stunning his Porsche looks.
Your welcome, Arthur replies. And then, I know it hasn't been easy lately. Thanks.
* * * * *
Eames is reading in bed when Arthur returns to the flat.
"Hi," Arthur says, walking into the bedroom. He's dressed in a full suit, hair slicked back. The exhaustion hasn't disappeared from his eyes.
"Hullo." Eames takes off his reading glasses-a concession to aging he only allowed after seeing how alluring Arthur was bespectacled--and lowers his book. "How was your day?"
"Meetings and conversations that went pretty well." Arthur undoes his cufflinks and drops them into a tray Eames designated as the 'cufflink tray' after stepping on a third stray silk knot in a week. "Received a few job offers but I didn't like the smell of them."
"Extractions?"
"One extraction. One militarization training for a bored billionaire." Arthur shrugs out of his shirt, all golden lines in the lamplight. "I passed."
"Do you want to continue working in dreamshare now?" Eames asks. "Or are you planning an early retirement?"
"I technically got back to dreamshare work a month ago. Did a couple of research gigs, background checks, that kind of thing." Arthur steps out of his trousers. "More than that? I'm not sure. Usually after a few weeks of lying low, I'm going stir crazy. But I've been enjoying the downtime."
Eames sets his book on the nightstand. "I wonder why that is."
"Yeah, I wonder." Arthur smiles at Eames, hovering at the side of the bed. "Care for some company?"
Eames flips back the covers. "You know I'm always up for company."
Arthur slides in and curls up against Eames' side. "Do you remember when I asked you whether it was possible to use inception to make someone love you?"
Eames pauses, the air growing heavier around them. "I do."
"In your professional opinion, could it be done?"
Eames looks at Arthur's dark head, his downcast gaze. He considers lying. "Yes, I believe it could be done."
"Would you do it?"
"If I felt I needed to," Eames says. "It wouldn’t be my first choice for a job, however."
"What if it were the only way to make it happen?" There's something raw in Arthur's voice. "What if you've tried everything else already?"
"I wouldn't judge someone for attempting it," Eames says quietly. "I would caution that even if inception took, results could prove unsatisfactory."
Arthur's quiet. "Aiden's not going to want to see me."
"Not even for the money?"
"Especially not for the money."
"Then don't offer it to him."
"If I don't have the money as an excuse to go, what reason will I have to see him?"
Eames rubs a thumb along Arthur's shoulder. "Is he open to any sort of reconciliation?"
"It doesn't seem like it, but what do I know." Arthur hooks his arm over Eames' waist. "Do you have any siblings?"
"There's an illegitimate half-sister by one of my father's mistresses, but you've done my background check. You know about her already."
"Yeah. It's different, though. Hearing you talk about things." Arthur's breath is soft against Eames' cheek. "Have you met her?"
"I saw her a few times. My father wired her mother money occasionally, and he brought me down to London as a cover to visit her every few years. We never spoke."
"You weren't curious about her?"
"Not particularly." Eames shrugs. "I believe she's married, now. Has a couple of tots."
"Did your mother ever meet her?"
"Once. My mother hated her-hated my father's mistresses, my father, the whole bloody situation. Wouldn't divorce, though. That's not how things were done back then."
"Your parents were pretty young when they got married, weren't they?"
"My mother was eighteen, my father nineteen." Eames chuckles dryly. "I was born two months after the wedding."
"I think my mom was in her early twenties when she had us. Never got married, though. I'm not sure why."
"Probably for the best," Eames says. "A terrible marriage is sheer misery for everyone forced to witness it."
"Probably." Arthur hooks his bony chin onto Eames' shoulder. "I bought two plane tickets to Chicago. But it's going to be shitty and I don't want to go."
"Well, if it all goes horribly wrong, I can always try topping again. Distract you with more atrocious sex."
Arthur laughs. "That was pretty bad. Though not your fault. Pretty sure the blame lies purely with me."
"There's a period of adjustment, that's all. Sometimes it takes a while to become comfortable enough to enjoy it."
"It took you ten minutes."
"I am a rare prodigy in many areas," Eames says haughtily while Arthur snorts.
Arthur sits up and traces a finger over Eames' crossed swords tattoo. "I love hearing you when you take my cock because you sound so-you sound like you fucking love it. And I want to feel that. I want to feel what it's like with you."
"It is incredible, feeling you inside me." Eames cradles Arthur's face in his hands, waits for him to make eye contact. "We can try again."
Arthur climbs on top of Eames and kisses him. "Not tonight," Arthur says as he reaches down to cup Eames' cock. "But soon."
* * * * *
"Where will we be staying?" Eames asks as he riffles through his various forms of identification. "Some of my personas are no longer welcome at US-based Marriott or Hyatt hotels."
"No hotel. I own a property that I bought through an agent. I can't tell you much more about it besides that it's a townhouse."
"Is it furnished or should I be expecting a sleeping bag?"
"There should be some furniture. I paid my agent to maintain the premises," Arthur says. "I gave him a budget and the money got spent."
Arthur's townhouse turns out to be in a quiet, residential neighborhood. It's nothing remarkable on the outside, unassuming when set in the context of a dozen buildings just like it.
The interior is spacious and littered with furniture from IKEA in luridly bright colors. There's a generic, mass-produced mandala tapestry pinned to the wall with thumbtacks. Everything smells faintly of stale marijuana.
"Is this agent still in your employ?" Eames asks as he wanders into the bedroom. There's a mattress on the floor with no bed-frame or sheets.
Arthur sighs.
* * * * * *
Eames goes jogging with Arthur at some insane hour of the morning. It's the absolute last thing he wants to do after an evening of greasy takeaway and sleeping on a mattress harder than concrete, but Arthur is practically vibrating with energy, a nervy live-wire in jogging shorts. As Eames automatically puts on the running shoes Arthur bought him several weeks ago, half-conscious, it occurs to him how well he's been trained over the past few months.
They jog through Lincoln Park, which is picturesque and filled with aggressive geese. Eames nearly has a finger bitten off when he passes one too closely. Arthur calls out, "Careful!" afterwards from about ten feet ahead, when it's of no use to Eames at all.
After the jog, they stop by a corner store for a random assortment of food (eggs, coffee, hot sauce, salt and pepper), and shower together. Arthur backs Eames up against the wall and sucks him off. Eames reciprocates with a handjob and wonders whether Aiden is bisexual or a repressed, married, gay. Straight seems biologically improbable.
"You want eggs?" Arthur asks afterwards, as he shaves and applies his twenty creams. "I think I saw a pan on the stove. I can scramble some."
"Scrambled eggs sound delicious," Eames says, though he's not certain that they do. Arthur's never cooked for him before.
In Paris, Arthur purchased all the necessary ingredients for sandwiches and left them for Eames to assemble as he chose. Who knows what sort of cook Arthur might be.
The answer proves to be: decent.
They eat the eggs while seated on green and yellow lawn-chairs with a crate serving as the table between them.
"You know I've never been to Chicago before," Eames says.
"I've only been here twice. Once was for a layover," Arthur says. "Aiden always wanted to live here, though."
"You spent time here as children?"
"Yeah, a few weeks. Did touristy shit, went to the aquarium." Arthur adds some hot sauce to his eggs. "My mom didn't want to go to the hassle of putting us into a new school system and we were old enough to go off on our own."
"What were you in town for?"
"Some convention. Mom talked her way into getting a stall to sell something to the convention-goers. Me and Aiden had the option of helping for eight hours or exploring the city on our own. Guess which we took." Arthur smiles wryly. "I was in charge of itinerary and directions."
Eames smiles back, unable to help himself. It's becoming a bloody tic. "You're the elder, then."
"I was born five minutes before Aiden, at 11:58PM. We technically have different birthdays."
A wisp of memory bubbles up: Arthur, drunk and miserable in Tokyo. Aiden's birthday. "What's he like? If you don't mind me asking."
"It's-fine. I mean, I dragged you all the way out here." Arthur moves a scraggly piece of egg to the edge of his plate. "He's married, has been for a while. Lives in a house with a white picket fence in the suburbs. Keisha-his wife-works at the post office."
"The picture of middle-class Americana."
"It's what he always wanted." Arthur pauses. "He has two kids, a boy and a girl."
"Have you met them?"
"No." Arthur's mouth twists, painfully. "It's funny because genetically, they're my children, too. Not that he'd want to hear that."
"Does he know that you can't…?"
"No. I never-he would say it's just another consequence of my decisions. To go into dreamshare. To participate in military experiments."
"You couldn't have known."
"He used to be my best friend." Arthur finishes eating the last piece of egg. "Sounds narcissistic, doesn't it? Being best friends with your identical twin."
"Genetics aside, you sound like vastly different people."
"We were. I've met twins who could read each others' minds because they had the same reactions to stuff, the same exact thoughts. Aiden and I were never like that." Arthur stands. "I should get these plates in the sink."
"Darling," Eames says, holding on to the plate when Arthur tries to take it. "I can wash up, if you'd like."
"No. I." Arthur blinks rapidly and takes a deep breath. "I need to put back the hot sauce anyway."
Eames relinquishes the plate and watches Arthur disappear into the kitchen. There's the clink of cheap dishware in the sink and then silence for five minutes. The water comes on eventually.
Arthur returns to the living room with his sleeves rolled up and a more composed expression. "I'm going shopping today. I need new clothes and, apparently, furniture. Anything you want me to pick up?"
"Tea," Eames says, wondering when Arthur's planning to speak to Aiden. Wondering if Arthur has a plan at all.
"Okay." Arthur says. "And I was thinking we could go out to dinner later. If you're not busy."
Eames inclines his head to one side. "My calendar appears to be clear."
"Then it's a date," Arthur replies, ears pink. "And maybe a symphony. After."
"Sounds serious," Eames says, sitting back in his lawn chair.
"It's not," Arthur replies gruffly. "I'll see you at five."
* * * * *
Eames goes back to sleep until mid-afternoon and is eventually roused by incredible hunger. He boils and devours some eggs, dresses, and sets off to explore the area.
There's a bodega within five minutes walk where he picks up a few basics: a newspaper, lube, condoms. He stops at a larger convenience store to buy cleaning supplies and returns to the townhouse.
The first thing he does upon reentry is take down that god-awful mandala tapestry. He then settles in a lawn chair to read the paper.
He circles a blurb on a disagreement Fischer-Morrow's board is having with its new CEO, Robert Fischer. Details are scanty, hardly conclusive in any way, but it's something. Arthur's probably already seen it online, but Eames leaves it open on the counter anyway.
He puts on rubber gloves and sets to cleaning the place. Despite having the appearance of a stoner bachelor pad, everything in the house is relatively well-maintained. No repairs or deep cleaning necessary. Even the layer of dust is thinner than the one Eames encountered at Mal's old flat.
After he's done, Eames runs to the liquor store and picks up a few bottles of wine. He passes a florist on the way back and pauses, considering, before heading inside.
Back at the house, Eames shaves, inspects whether his hair is thinning (no, thank god), and puts on the suit that Arthur likes most. By the time he steps out of the loo, Arthur has returned. He's supervising a team of movers unloading furniture and groceries.
"Floor models," Arthur says by way of explanation. "Might have some nicks and scratches, but this seemed easier."
Eames shrugs; he'd just as soon not be roped into assembling furniture.
After the movers are gone, they have a coffee table and full dining set, along with sheets and pillows.
"Hi," Arthur says.
"Hullo." Eames leans against the counter. Arthur looks harried, tired. Sexy as ever, though.
"You dressed up." Arthur looks away and back again, almost bashful. "Is that for tonight?"
"I hear I have a hot date that's going to wine and dine me."
Arthur does flush slightly at that. Eames sees it now, finally, this other side of Arthur. The one that loves all of this: getting dressed, flirting, going out. "Lucky guy, I guess."
"We'll see exactly how lucky, hm?" Eames says. "You should probably start getting ready. Wouldn't want to be late."
"Are you going to leave without me?" Arthur asks, a smile playing about his lips as he disappears into the bedroom to change. When he returns, he's in a deep green suit-one Eames has never seen before, must be new-and looks absolutely radiant.
"I have something for you," Eames says as he procures a white rose from behind his back. Arthur's face goes slack with surprise, and as Eames pins it in a jacket buttonhole, he says nothing. Throughout the evening, however, Eames catches Arthur thumbing the delicate petals with a secret smile, when he thinks no one is looking.
Arthur arranged for a driver in a sleek black Rolls Royce to take them around, which Eames takes a moment to admire before slipping inside. The chauffeur is quiet and professional, expressing no reaction when Arthur puts a hand on Eames' thigh and leaves it there.
The restaurant they go to is small and intimate, low lit with votives at every table. Arthur orders them a bottle of pinot grigio to split.
"The flat's really coming along," Eames says as he takes a piece of bread from the basket. "I look forward to sleeping on sheets tonight."
"Who says you'll be doing any sleeping?"
Eames glances at Arthur, who is buttering his bread demurely. "That's a rather presumptuous statement for a first date, wouldn't you say?"
"I'm just saying that I hope you don't have to get up early tomorrow. You're going to be pretty wrung out."
"Bold claims." Eames slips a foot out of his shoe and glides it up Arthur's left calf. Arthur inhales sharply and Eames smiles.
The waitress returns, and Eames amuses himself by working his foot up Arthur's leg as they place their orders.
"You know, I almost want to skip the entrée and get straight to the dessert," Arthur says once the waitress leaves, voice level, seemingly unaffected by Eames' foot pressed against his knee.
"Sometimes the best moment to appreciate a dessert is after you've had a truly excellent meal," Eames says, sliding his foot back down to Arthur's ankle. "Savor the meal, then the dessert."
"Why not jump straight to the good part, though?"
Eames looks up, into Arthur's eyes, his handsome face-momentarily clear of worries over Aiden, the stress of the past few days. Eames reaches across the table to touch Arthur's fingers, wrapped around the stem of his wineglass.
"This is the good part," Eames says.
* * * * *
The car picks them up after dinner and delivers them to the concert hall. The philharmonic is solid, and it's been some years since Eames listened to Brahms.
Eames settles into his seat comfortably, sinking into a state of half-listening and drowsing. Beside him, Arthur shifts and fidgets every few minutes, a restless sort of energy.
Eames touches Arthur's bouncing knee and murmurs, "You'll drown out the orchestra if you keep thinking so loudly."
The corners of Arthur's mouth turn up as he covers Eames' hand with his own, leg stilling. "Want to meet me in the bathroom during intermission?"
"There'll probably be a lot of people coming and going."
"We can stay later and skip the second half of the show." Arthur's grinning full-bore now, impish and startling.
"And here I thought you were a cultured man of arts and letters," Eames murmurs.
An elderly woman in front of them turns to glare at them with pursed lips, ending the conversation.
They hang round the washroom later, until the chimes go off and all the geriatric patrons shuffle back into the theater. Arthur drags Eames into a handicapped stall.
There's toilet paper and dribbles of liquid on the floor that Eames hopes are water. "I would," Eames says, "but the tile floor and my bad knee…"
Arthur sighs dramatically. "I take you out for a night on the town and buy you a fancy dinner…"
"I thought you were simply enjoying the pleasure of my company."
"I wouldn't object to enjoying it in some more specific ways."
Eames kisses Arthur, endlessly amused. "I'll let you fuck me later if you blow me now."
"I get to do all the work twice is what you're offering me?" Arthur replies, kisses becoming more heated as his hands roam over Eames' body.
Nobody ends up blowing anybody, alas, as a very displeased bathroom attendant starts knocking on the stall door.
They're escorted out of the building by disapproving ushers, and wait outside until the car comes back around. As they wait, Eames notices Arthur staring at him with an odd expression on his face.
"Is there a stain?" Eames asks, glancing down the front of his shirt. He checks the front of his jacket to be sure, but there doesn't appear to be any discoloration.
"No, it's--" Arthur's fingers flutter against Eames' collar for a moment. "You look nice. I don't think I said, before."
Eames smooths down his tie with a faint hint of pride. "Quite so."
Arthur leans forward to lay a peck against the corner of Eames' mouth. Behind them, an usher clears her throat loudly.
"Later," Eames murmurs, managing to restrain his mirth until they reach the backseat of the car.
"I don't think I'll be welcome back at that concert hall," Arthur says. He looks aroused and disheveled, unmistakably so.
"Donate a new wing and I'm sure they'll come round," Eames says and slumps back. "God, I haven't been thrown out of a place for public indecency in ages."
"We didn't even get to anything indecent."
"You're a terrible influence," Eames says, arm resting against Arthur's arm companionably.
"Oh sure. Before me, you were pure as the driven snow."
"Truly, I fear for my virtue whenever you're near." Eames presses the length of his leg against Arthur's.
When they reach the townhouse, Arthur makes a point of gallantly holding all the doors open for Eames.
"Enjoying the view, hm?" Eames says over his shoulder as he walks inside.
"It's the best," Arthur agrees, placing a gentlemanly hand on the small of Eames' back rather than his arse. "Would you like a cup of tea?"
"Are you offering me a literal cuppa or is that a euphemism I've not heard before?"
"Well, I can teabag you later if you want," Arthur says, smiling. "But I meant a literal cup of tea."
"I think I'm alright for now," Eames murmurs as he draws Arthur in for a kiss-sweet and romantic, the way Arthur secretly likes and would never, ever ask for.
* * * * *
"Ready to go jogging?" Arthur asks, nuzzling Eames' shoulder. It's far too early in the morning.
"I would be, but someone kept me up all night," Eames replies sleepily.
Eames can feel Arthur's grin against his neck. "I did, didn't I?"
"You wore me out." Eames rolls onto his back and opens his eyes halfway. "Now I am in need of restorative beauty sleep."
Arthur props his chin on Eames' chest. "I guess it wouldn't hurt to go a few hours later."
Eames pets Arthur's hair clumsily. "What a capital idea."
"See you in a bit," Arthur says, closing his eyes and tucking into Eames' side.
* * * * *
"I'm gonna make dinner," Arthur says. "Want to help?"
"Alright." On the way to the sink to wash his hands, Eames drops a brief kiss to the side of Arthur's mouth. "What are we making?"
"Bag salad and steak," Arthur replies. "Can you get the plates?"
They share the dressing packet that comes with the salad and each get a decent cut of rib-eye, because Arthur stopped in a butcher shop on a whim earlier. They still only have hot sauce, salt, and pepper as condiments, though, and the one pan.
"I heard about this gay club that's supposed to be pretty good," Arthur says. "It's called Cock 'n Load. And it has an attached hotel called Cock 'n Roll."
"Subtle. I'm guessing the rooms let by the hour?"
"They do," Arthur replies. "We should go out. I haven't been to a club in ages."
"But clubs are so very loud and full of people," Eames says. "Usually with nothing in their pockets worth picking other than condoms and narcotics laced with rat poison."
"If you come with me, we can dance together." The suggestive hand trailing down Eames' side leaves little confusion over what sort of dancing Arthur has in mind. Although it's an idea not without allure, Eames is unmoved.
"I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm a born and bred Englishman," Eames says, exaggerating his poshest drawl. "Which means that I'm genetically incapable of moving my body with any sort of musical rhythm."
"Because you're British, you can't dance," Arthur says, eyebrow as skeptical as Eames has ever seen it. "Seriously, that's what you're going with?"
"Much like our cuisine, it's a national failing. There's absolutely nothing to be done about it." Eames shakes his head. "Tragic, really."
"So the idea of grinding up against me in front of a sea of envious strangers holds absolutely no appeal for you?"
"Your lascivious displays always hold a tremendous appeal for me, darling. And if you'd ever like to put on some sort of private performance, I will be the most enthusiastic audience imaginable. But I've tried sex in all sorts of public venues and discovered that sort of exhibitionism isn't really to my taste."
"Maybe it's not about sex and exhibitionism," Arthur says, leaning forward. "Maybe I just want everyone to see me go home with the hottest guy in the club."
Eames feels his ego swell at that, and eyes Arthur speculatively. "Well played, Arthur."
"So you'll go?" Arthur asks, a smile spreading across his face that makes it virtually impossible for Eames to say anything but yes, of course I will.
* * * * *
It's been years-maybe decades, ugh--since Eames has willingly gone into a nightclub environment and he has no idea what appropriate dress is anymore. He flicks listlessly through his wardrobe options and then gives up.
"Arthur," Eames says as he wanders into the bathroom, shirtless, where Arthur appears to be individually arranging every hair on his head. "I haven't a thing to wear. I'm afraid you'll have to go on without me."
"I bought you an outfit. It's hanging in the closet and marked with your name," Arthur says, focused wholly on his reflection.
"You-what, really?" Eames pauses, waiting for Arthur to glance over and be enticed enough by Eames' naked flesh to abandon this whole expedition. No such luck.
Grumbling to himself, Eames hunts down the clothing Arthur purchased-as if he'd known with complete certainty that Eames would cave, the arrogant wanker-and puts it on. It's snug-snugger than Eames typically prefers his clothes.
The top is sleeveless, showing off his arms to great effect, and features a deep V-neck that reveals his chest hair. The leather trousers are so tight it's impossible to wear them with any sort of underwear, a fact Eames discovers after he's dragged them up over his bum and buttoned them. The lines of his boxers stand out in staggering and unsightly relief. Eames sighs as he peels them down, strips off his boxers, and forces the leather back on.
Despite the hassle, the trousers do make his arse look absolutely incredible.
After he's finished adjusting his cock and balls (not much breathing room for either), he wanders back into the loo where Arthur is primping. He's wearing his hair in waves, gelled to hold their shape but not his usual slicked back style. His eyebrows are perfectly sculpted, skin flawless.
"You look fucking fantastic," Arthur says as he surveys Eames appreciatively. "Turn around so I can see you from behind."
"You're making me feel like a piece of meat," Eames complains as he allows Arthur a three-hundred and sixty view of him.
"You love it." Arthur gives Eames' arse a quick grope. "Now I gotta change."
"You look fine."
"Fine's not going to cut it," Arthur says. "Besides, I can't go out with you looking like that while I'm dressed like this."
What Arthur ends up putting on is nothing like what he put Eames in: a red polo shirt and a pair of dark slacks.
"Are you serious?" Eames demands, indignant. Upon closer inspection, he can see that the polo is meticulously fitted to Arthur's torso, short sleeve hitting at the perfect length to highlight Arthur's biceps. "I'm trussed up like a show pony and that's what you're wearing?"
"I'm going out to show you off," Arthur replies as he eases into the slacks. Once he has them on, Eames is forced to change his tune a bit; the trousers are tight enough to reveal the shape of Arthur's cock pressed along his right thigh.
"These are obscene," Eames murmurs, compelled to reach out and stroke the outline of Arthur's dick through the cloth. He feels a rather strong urge to put his mouth over what he stroked and contemplates whether Arthur would let him.
"Save it for later," Arthur says with a small, smug smile. "We've got all night."
"Must we go out?" Eames cups Arthur's marvelously firm arse in his hands. "Can't we stay in and enjoy ourselves?"
"We enjoy ourselves every day. Sometimes multiple times a day," Arthur says, unmoved. "It's one night. For a few hours."
Eames heaves a sigh and allows his lower lip to project slightly. He sidles closer to Arthur-who smells delicious, with a hint of spiced cologne-and inhales deeply enough for his chest to rise.
Arthur's gaze flies from Eames' mouth to his pecs before he steps back and away from Eames. "No. We're going out. I'm not going to let you work me up before we even leave."
"But-"
"We're leaving now." Arthur reaches down to adjust his cock with a wince. "Before I lose all circulation down here."
* * * * *
The Cock 'n Load is like every other gay nightclub Eames has ever been in: a dark and decorated place for men to prowl for fresh meat. He and Arthur are definitely grade A quality, considering the way all heads swivel as they enter, eyes removing what little clothing both of them are wearing. Eames supposes he doesn't hate the attention.
Arthur puts a possessive hand at the center of Eames' chest and leaves it there. "I want to dance. I don't suppose you'd care to join me?"
"Aren't you going to buy me a drink first?" Eames asks. "I don't know what sort of man you think I am."
"A man who'll be getting free drinks all night, I’m sure," Arthur replies dryly, glancing round at the numerous parties staring them down. "Don't take off without me, okay? I'm planning to fuck you until you scream later tonight."
"Promises, promises," Eames says as he slips away from Arthur, a shiver of arousal at his words.
Eames sets up shop at the bar. He orders himself a drink, which comes with a colorful paper umbrella and the bartender's number scrawled on the napkin. He takes note of both it and the bartender-a twinky little thing who winks at him before going to serve a patron at the other side of the bar-and shrugs, leaning against the counter.
All around the room people are making eyes at Eames, some more blatant and aggressive than others. The first person to approach, however, is a blond younger than Tansy.
"Hey," the teenager says, with bravado he probably thinks is an effective substitute for confidence. "Can I buy you a drink?"
"How old are you?" Eames asks, point blank.
"What kind of question is that?" The teenager blinks. "I'm twenty-one."
Eames gives him a bored look. "How old are you, really?"
"Are you carding me? Because I can show-"
"There's no need to strain yourself. You can keep your fake license in your wallet," Eames says. "I'm not the police and I don't work for the bar. I merely like to know who I'm dealing with."
"I'm-" the teenager swallows. "Nineteen. Are you going to tell anyone?"
"No, but I'm going to give you a piece of free advice and send you on your way," Eames says. "Use a condom. Run along now."
Eames turns in a clear dismissal, and the teenager stalks off, muttering, "You're not that hot anyway."
It's a matter of minutes before another man approaches, this one older and more suited to Eames' taste. "Hey."
"Hey yourself," Eames says, taking the man in: tall, thin, handsome-not as handsome as Arthur, but few men are. Nice mouth, though.
"What's your name?"
"Milo," Eames says. "Yours?"
"Trey." Trey smiles, rows of perfect white teeth arranged in the hallmark of past orthodontics. "Come here often?"
Eames raises an eyebrow at the line, but Trey's good looks and swagger are probably enough to let him get away with lines on most nights. "Passing through."
"Out-of-towner, huh?" Trey leans in. "Interested in a tour? My place isn't too far from here and I could show you some… sights."
Even if he's not as visually arresting as Arthur, Trey could prove an entertaining diversion. "I was thinking about staying a bit more local, to be honest," Eames says, glancing meaningfully in the direction of the bathroom.
Trey opens his mouth to speak. Eames never gets a chance to hear what he might have said because Arthur appears and steps neatly in front of Trey. "Hey."
"Hello," Eames replies, wondering if that's the universally agreed upon opening volley for gay pick-up these days.
"Is this your first time here?" Arthur asks Eames, blatantly ignoring Trey.
"Yes, it is," Eames replies, wondering if this is the start of a new game.
"Thought so." Arthur leans in. "Guess I found myself a virgin."
Eames raises an eyebrow. "It's been quite a while since someone accused me of that."
"Hey," Trey says, voice no longer friendly. "Milo and I were talking."
"Hey," Arthur replies, almost mocking. "Fuck off."
"Now now," Eames intercedes as the glares begin to get more heated. Tempting though it is to watch this all play out, he can't recall whether Arthur pulls his fairly lethal punches while brawling on the street, and Eames doesn't want to flee yet another city in the middle of the night in case Arthur doesn't. "Trey, it was lovely to meet you, but it appears my dance card's been filled. Another evening, perhaps."
Trey wanders off, scowling, while Arthur smirks. "You've got good taste."
"I believe that’s yet to be determined."
Arthur grins. "I like a challenge. What's your name?"
"Milo," Eames replies. "And yours?"
"Tristan."
"Alright, Tristan." Eames runs his fingertips down Tristan's arm. "Tell me, what brings you here?"
"I wanted to meet some people. Why do you ask?"
"You don't seem like the usual clientele for this sort of establishment," Eames says. "And I am certain someone like you has no trouble meeting people."
Tristan gives Eames a long, considering look. "Sometimes I like to lose myself in the music," he says, a more honest answer. "Dance and forget about everything going on outside."
"Is there something in particular you're trying to forget?"
"Doesn't everyone have something?" Tristan replies. "Something they wish they could have done differently? Something they'd do anything to go back and change if they could?"
Eames takes a sip of his drink. "I should inform you now that if you're trying to pick me up using a wounded bird persona, it's not going to work."
Tristan lets out a startled laugh. "No? My vulnerability isn't working for you?"
"Not in the least. I find emotions completely distasteful."
"Then let's skip the talking and get to the dancing."
Eames lowers his voice. "Couldn't we skip the dancing as well?"
"Don't worry." Tristan leans in, near enough for his lips to brush Eames' earlobe. "Dancing's the best foreplay and a hell of a lot of fun if done right."
Tristan leads Eames to the center of the dance floor without waiting for a response. It's a tangle of hot, sweaty bodies all around them, gyrating to the music with more than a few interested stares pointed their way. Tristan ignores everyone except for Eames.
"The bass is like a heartbeat," Tristan says. He takes Eames' hand and places it on his chest. "You can feel it, can't you?"
Tristan's heartbeat under Eames' palm is strong, steady-seeming to pulse in time with the music surrounding them. Eames slides closer, the world narrowing to Tristan's dark eyes. "Yes."
Tristan slots a leg between Eames' legs, hips grinding slow and dirty. "Move with me."
Eames doesn't know how long they dance together, a crush of people around them, the bass thrumming through their bodies. Tristan loops an arm around Eames' neck, close enough to rub his growing erection against Eames'. Eames allows his palms to slide up and down Tristan's back, over the curve of his shoulder-blades and down to the swell of his arse.
"I think I'm done with foreplay," Eames says, biting gently at Tristan's ear. "I heard there's a hotel attached to this place. Interested?"
They head towards the Cock 'n Roll via the conveniently attached entrance to the club and book a room for the whole night.
The hotel room is Spartan. Aside from the nightstand and a lamp, the only other furniture is the large bed.
They make out for a bit, hands roaming over each others' bodies. Eames has to admit that Tristan has a point-Eames' whole body is thrumming with a pleasant level of arousal, warm and loose and sensual from the dancing.
Peeling them both out of tight, sweaty clothing proves challenging though achievable with great persistence. The fucking that follows is relatively brief, but an enjoyable climax to a surprisingly pleasant evening.
Tristan is the first to get washed and dressed. "The room's paid up for the rest of the night if you want to relax, watch some TV. All yours," he says.
Eames smothers a smile. "Thank you. That's very generous of you."
"Yeah, sure, no problem." Tristan smooths his hair back and rolls his shoulders. "You were great. I had a great time."
"As did I."
"You want some money for a cab? Because I could--"
"I think I'm all set," Eames says. He goes to wash up and when he steps out of the shower, he finds that Tristan is gone. There are a few crisply laid out notes on the bed.
* * * * *
The next morning, Eames meets up with Arthur for brunch. Arthur's dressed and styled as he normally is, in a button down shirt and sport coat.
"Sleep well?" Arthur asks after they've sat down.
"Very," Eames says. "And you?"
"Yeah, I about passed out. How about you? Did you-have a good night?" Arthur's studying his menu with great interest.
"I was out rather late. At a disreputable gay nightclub I'd heard about."
"That's-" Arthur clears his throat. "That doesn't really sound like your scene. A gay nightclub, I mean."
"It wasn't. Thankfully, I didn't have to stay for very long."
"You met someone, huh?" Arthur's still staring at his menu. "How was he? I mean, did you-"
"Oh, he was excellent," Eames says, with as straight a face as he can manage. "Quite chivalrous. He paid for the hotel room and left me cab fare after."
"Sounds like a pretty considerate guy. For a one night stand, I mean."
"Yes, and his cock was absolutely huge. Largest I've ever seen," Eames says. "I don't know how he fit it inside his trousers. It barely fit inside me."
Arthur's grinning behind his menu now, delight impossible to contain. "Yeah?"
"It was life-changing," Eames says, solemnly. "Yesterday ruined me for anyone else."
Arthur begins to laugh, doubling over in helpless peals. His face is scrunched up in an uncomplicated joy that takes ten years off, dissolves the worries and the stress of the past few weeks, and makes something warm well up inside Eames.
* * * * *
"Even with flowers, this place is depressing," Federico says as he plucks the petals from a sprig of heather.
"You hardly need to tell me that," Eames replies, surveying the landscape. More heather is in bloom now, tinting patches of the estate mauve.
"Have you thought about redecorating?"
"Why?"
"You spend a lot of time here," Federico says. "Maybe make it less bleak. For both of us."
"My hope is to eventually cease having these dreams at all. I could do without all the prodding from my subconscious."
"Where do you want these dreams to be instead?" Federico says, blithely ignoring Eames' statements. "On a beach with naked women fanning you?"
"That would be a start. If I must continue to endure these lectures, I'd prefer it to be while I'm sipping alcohol out of a hollowed coconut."
"A man can dream, eh?" Federico winks and Eames rolls his eyes.
"By the way, I spoke to Arthur about the puppy play and he agreed to do it. Are you now appeased, subconscious?"
"I could not be happier," Federico says. "Though I wonder how Arthur is doing."
"What do you mean?" Unbidden, the image of Arthur laughing, eyes scrunched up in unrestrained glee comes to mind. Eames tries to push it away, but the image lingers stubbornly, and rouses an uncomfortable amount of emotion. "He's been in excellent spirits these past few days."
"Has he?"
"Of course. There's been sex and-dates, and-"
"And no talk of why you came to Chicago." Federico twirls the stem of his heather, stripped bare of all its petals. "Do you think Arthur's forgotten?"
A tiny part of Eames had hoped, furtively, that perhaps there would be enough to cause Arthur to forget. To be completely preoccupied. But of course Arthur isn't that sort of man who forgets anything.
"Do you think everything we've been doing together has merely been an elaborate set of avoidance tactics?" Eames asks, an unpleasant sinking sensation in his gut.
"That's an excellent question, isn't it?" Federico replies.
* * * * *
Eames' trousers shrink in the wash. He puts them on with an annoyed sigh, and notices they fit rather snugly round the bottom. He wanders into the living room where Arthur is installing a newly purchased big screen television, and feels Arthur's eyes track him as he passes.
"I like those pants on you," Arthur says.
"Thank you," Eames says, pleased.
"Maybe you should wear all your pants that tight." Arthur sets down his drill and wipes the sheen of sweat from his brow. "Is the TV centered? I've been staring at it so long my eyes are crossing."
"I believe it is," Eames says. He forces himself to take a deep breath. "Arthur, what are we doing here?"
"Hanging a TV?"
"And after that?"
"We're going to a museum. And then getting dinner and maybe seeing a show."
"Arthur," Eames says quietly. "Is this why we came to Chicago?"
Arthur falters. "Are you not enjoying Chicago? I'm working on getting more furniture-"
"I do appreciate the new bed. That old mattress was hell on my back," Eames says. "And I'll go on as many planned outings as you'd care to. I'm merely wondering if we're losing sight of why you wanted to come here in the first place."
Arthur stares down at the floor. "Do we have to talk about it?"
Eames touches the back of Arthur's neck, the vulnerable curve and soft hair there. "If you'd like. Otherwise, no."
Arthur leans into the caress. "Aiden doesn't want to see me."
"Have you spoken with him?"
"I emailed him to say I was back in the US. He hasn't responded."
"Where is he now?"
"A hospital not too far from here. I have the floor plans and his room location."
"I think visiting hours should suffice," Eames says, gently. "Do you want to see him?"
"I want to go back to Paris," Arthur says miserably. "I shouldn't do that, though, should I?"
"Well, we came all this way," Eames says. "Do you really want to go back now?"
"No." Arthur exhales slowly. "There are visiting hours tomorrow afternoon."
"Tomorrow, then."
"Yeah." Arthur echoes unenthusiastically. "Tomorrow."
* * * * *
"This is it." Together, Arthur and Eames stare up at the forbidding stone hospital exterior.
Eames opens his mouth to speak, but before he can, Arthur says, "Will you come in with me?" Arthur has his poker face on, but he's pale, right toe tapping a restless beat on the concrete.
Eames wants to say no. Few things in the world sound worse than becoming any more involved in the drama of Arthur's relentlessly complicated personal life.
"Alright."
"Thank you," Arthur says, expression not changing. He touches the back of Eames' hand.
They sign in at the front desk. One of the nurses visibly starts upon seeing Arthur. "Are you-"
"He's my twin brother, yeah," Arthur says, summoning up a polite smile.
"He's in room 122," the nurse says, recovering quickly. "He's been a trooper."
Eames walks Arthur to the half-open door. Arthur stares at it in silence, then abruptly pivots on his heel. "I can't do this."
"What?" Eames says, catching Arthur's arm when he begins to walk away. "Are you serious?"
"This was a bad idea. It is a bad idea. I shouldn't have come."
"Arthur-"
"He's not going to forgive me for-"
"Is someone out there?" a voice calls out, as deep and sonorous as Arthur's. The enunciation is not quite as sharp, vowels softer.
Arthur freezes and then whispers, "Will you come with me? I can't-I can't do this alone."
There's a surreal quality to the situation, to the idea of finally meeting Arthur's identical twin brother under circumstances like this. Yet all Eames can think of is the panicked, pleading expression on Arthur's face, the way he takes Eames' hand once more. "Please."
Eames relents, trailing behind Arthur into the room.
Next: Chapter 9, Part c