lights will guide you home, and ignite your bones (2/2)
(part one)
The stretch of grey beach is deserted this early in the morning, save for a handful of zealous surfers vying for waves and the occasional elderly couple powerwalking along the concrete esplanade.
They slow down to a stroll; Arthur needs to catch his breath (although the side-effects of chemo have mostly worn off by now, his energy levels still flag faster than they normally would) and Eames uses the opportunity to roll out a twinge in his shoulder from sleeping at an awkward angle.
Arthur yawns without bothering to cover his mouth, curving into a lethargic stretch, thin vest riding up to reveal a swathe of skin and a trail of dark hair dipping down into his shorts.
He is resplendent even like this: sweaty, hungry, pissed at being awake, barely able to string together a sentence.
Unbidden, the words rise up out of Eames, bubbling over.
Some part of him wants to hold back, to prolong this patchwork mimicry of functionality for as long as possible.
Because even a half-life with Arthur is better than a full life without him.
Eames winces, salt in his nostrils and sweat dotting his upper lip. God, he sounds pathetic.
But it spills out, burning the corners of his mouth, unnervingly composed and detached. Ensuring that they are not being watched (as with most things, they prefer their affection to remain private and unobserved) he presses his nose to a sallow cheek, fingers curling around the nape of Arthur’s neck to jerk ineffectually at the short velvety hair there.
“I’ll be all right, you know. Don’t stay because of me.”
Arthur snorts, beads of sea spray pooling at the notch of his throat. Eames wants to lick that hollow clean, run the flat of his tongue across his clavicles, bite into the taut vee shaped by the muscles in his neck.
Shit, he thinks, shit. How is it possible to want, to still want, to still want so much more?
“Don’t think so highly of yourself, fucker,” Arthur sniffs. But his eyes waver between really? and thank you.
Eames grins, kicking at an outcrop of serrated limestone. “Careful. I’m responsible for your pain meds.”
Arthur punches him in the arm and laughs, rusty and breathless, spiralling away just out of reach.
***“I really do think you’ll be all right.” Arthur is absentmindedly tattooing kisses along the blue-green veins at Eames’ wrist now that they are hidden behind an embankment of rock. “You might not think so, right now, but you will be. You’re just that sort of adaptable person.”
“Shut up,” Eames grunts, jabbing him in the side with an elbow. “You’re ruining the sunrise.”
Arthur butts him in the shoulder with his head, gently, doing that thing with his mouth that looks like a smile but could conceivably be a generous scowl. “I’m being serious, asshole.”
“Well, I think you’re being a romantic, supercilious bastard,” Eames makes sure to grin though the execution is admittedly flawed, tugging at a twirl of dusky hair. “What happened to being manly men, hm?”
“You’ll be okay?” Arthur persists quietly, as if Eames had not spoken, as if this answer is the be all and end all.
(Maybe it is.)
“What do you think, since you seem to be the expert here?” He’s not going to say it.
“I think you’re stalling.” Dawning sunlight catches the creases at the edge of his eyes.
He is as beautiful as the day Eames realised that he was, and it isn’t fair.
“Race you back,” he offers abruptly, wiping his frosty palms on his shorts and then hauling Arthur to his feet.
Arthur bites his lip, stifling a laugh. Eames could kiss it out of him, violent and stinging. “You’re so emotionally backward.”
“And yet, you still put up with me,” he replies evenly, if only to see the glimmer of understanding in Arthur’s eyes, the shrewd slope of his smirk.
They are edging close to dangerous territory now, things left unsaid and unprofessed. It is farcical, of course it is. They’ve lived together for three years now - hell, had even bought a puppy together (now a rambunctious monstrosity of a dog gradually eating them out of house and home), conforming to that stereotype of cohabitating contentment - and yet, they can’t say this one trivial thing aloud to each other?
“I put up with you for your orgasmic toasted cheese sandwiches,” Arthur is saying, true to form, looking directly at him, straightforward and seemingly sincere.
When Arthur lies he stares the usually unfortunate recipient right in the eye, as he would down the barrel of a gun, intent and watchful. There is no blushing, no averting of his gaze and no overtly obvious tells. It is almost childish - a brazen game of let-us-see-who-will-blink-or-look-away-first.
Eames can generally pinpoint when Arthur is lying, through a fiendish mix of guesswork, deduction, intuition and luck. Certainly, his accuracy is not one hundred per cent, but it is high enough to vex Arthur. As much as he doggedly tries to hide it Eames reads it in the flare of his nostrils and the indignant twitch of his bristly brows.
“Whatever you say,” he leers, leaning well into Arthur’s personal bubble until he is a mere inch away from his mouth. Interestingly enough, Arthur’s eyelids automatically flutter to a close as if against his own volition. His lips are bleeding pink from the chill, the constellation of moles by his nose stark against bleached skin.
Eames doesn’t kiss him.
He does, however, take off jogging in the opposite direction, footfalls heavy.
He strains to hear above the whistling wind, the roar of the irascible sea, and is rewarded for his trouble.
There is a sharp intake of breath and unchecked outrage in a reedy voice as it bellows you motherfucking cheat.
There is the tread of sneakers hastening to catch up, Argus enthusiastically barking in the distance.
There are two elongated shadows thrown against the concrete walkway, chasing one another.
There is a certain comfort in knowing that some things don’t change.
***When things fall apart at the seams they do so capriciously, without consideration or care, inconvenient and disruptive.
But to say that it is entirely unexpected would be dishonest.
For Arthur and Eames anticipated and planned for this day many, many months ago.
One day, one perfectly ordinary day, the pain simply builds up into a crescendo; it becomes a caterwaul of enraged nerve endings unable to be assuaged by analgesics, sleep or misdirection.
Eames finds him curled into the carpet, nearly sobbing with each spasm of agony splitting his sides.
No. The thought is flittering, soon washed away by adrenaline. Please. No.
Spurred by instinct and training and dread, he helps Arthur into the passenger seat of the car, grabs the overnight bag that has been sitting beside the stairs for weeks and speed-dials their doctor. He will also need to inform Cobb and the neighbour who had agreed to look after the house and Argus for some days if required.
But not now, not right now.
“Fuck, fuck, motherfucker,” Arthur grimaces the entire way to the hospital, a hellish drive that veers precariously close to breaking multiple road rules and speed limits, squirming restlessly, seatbelt chafing against his chest.
Eames, a dull throb at his temple and eyes on the road, echoes the sentiment.
***Hooked up to an army of whirring machines, Arthur is bed-ridden and unable to consume much besides sparse bites of his favourite ice cream, three spoonfuls of cereal or a slice of grapefruit.
At first he refuses the narcotics (I don’t want to be insensible; I want to remember) but as the pain punctures through the barriers afforded by medication with shattering and devastating frequency, he consents.
“I’m sorry,” he tells Eames, fingers clawing into bland sheets, unashamed but also uncertain. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
“You idiot,” Eames kisses him thrice: forehead, nose, mouth, and whispers, “You idiot.”
***Before long, Arthur is attached to IV fluid drips and syringe drivers that deliver a regulated dose of morphine at a consistent rate. It is an improvement and provides the much-needed pain relief despite the pervasive fear that with too high a dose he might descend into delirium or hallucinations.
As it is he is straddling the boundary between sleep and stupor, flitting in and out of consciousness, each interval of wakefulness significantly shorter than the last.
There are times when his eyes are glazed and unseeing.
There are times when he is alert and even animated.
There is talk of transferring him to a hospice but Eames knows, deep down, that he will not last that long.
***Eames is purchasing his third coffee at the spacious cafeteria, the hospital equivalent of a food court, filled with anxious families and sleep-deprived medical registrars, when it happens. He had just stepped out for a breather, the routine of walking offering some reprieve to his frazzled and frenzied mind.
As he turns to head back, pocketing the change, he sees Yusuf hurrying towards him seeking eye contact and gesturing when he finds it. He is not running. But he is not dawdling, either.
“Eames,” he says when in range, eyes large and round and opaque, hands reaching out to catch at his sleeve. “Eames.”
There is a buzzing in his ears; white noise that heightens in volume and pitch as he follows Yusuf back to the room, throat clogged and brain sputtering out wild theories and horrifying conclusions. Coffee sloshes over his hand in the reckless haste; the streak of resultant heat is momentarily blinding and breath-taking.
He pushes through the pain and ignores the basic tenants of first aid, increasing the pace of his stride instead.
(Because: what if…what if.)
But no, he is wrong, because Arthur is waiting for him.
They have ten marvellous minutes together in a dim and disinfected room that is empty but for themselves, Arthur mumbling groggily It’s time, Eames, I’m ready and Eames confessing I know it is, I’m here along with a few other soft and secret things that cause Arthur to smile and roll eyes that are so very dark and dilated in his ashen, haggard face.
“Thank you,” Arthur kisses him thrice: forehead, nose, mouth, and whispers, “Thank you.”
Eventually his eyelids fuse shut and he drifts into a coma that is partially induced by the morphine and partially a consequence of multiple organ systems shutting down.
Eames holds his hand the entire while.
It is icy, mottled blue, rough and wizened like that of a cadaver.
He runs his thumb over the knuckles, murmuring words that he does not entirely mean and surely cannot guarantee, words that lilt and crack in tune to Arthur’s quietening deepening lengthening breathing: everything will be okay, you’ll see, everything will be okay, I promise.
***The lumpy brown blisters scattered across his scalded hand burst and slough off, oozing clear serous fluid. The new skin beneath is pale pink and terrifying in its delicacy, contrasted against the surrounding flesh which is angrily inflamed and sore to touch.
It is hardly necessary but a vigilant nurse insists on removing the collapsed flaps of skin with forceps and wrapping up the wound in gauze. She speaks to him as she goes through the motions, instructions cool and concise, though she must be aware that he is hardly listening.
His thoughts have been left behind in a room two doors over, across the hallway.
When she is done Eames thanks her in a croaking, tinder-dry voice that sounds nothing like his own.
Her craggy features split into a weather-beaten smile, wistful and weary.
In that brief instant he wonders about the scores of men, women and children she has nourished and nurtured, comforted and cleaned up. He wonders about the hospital beds under her watch that have been emptied, either by demise or resolution. He wonders if she still feels as strongly as she might have when she was an intern, freshly graduated and out of her depth amidst this sea of suffering.
The moment passes, and she moves on. Eames is left alone with her scent of starch, sterility and hand sanitizer.
To him, it smells like death.
***Arthur is mostly quiet, so quiet that Eames often has to feel his pulse for proof of life.
But the following evening, the cadence of his respiration changes unexpectedly - each breath harsh and gurgling, rattling against the accumulated saliva and mucous secretions in his airways. With each strained and wheezing attempt at inspiration, the skin surrounding his Adam’s apple is sucked in with the force of the exertion.
Eames can barely stand it. Cobb whisks Phillipa out of the room, the line of his mouth grim. Mercifully, James is already out in the gift shop with Miles, deliberating over get-well-soon balloons and flowers.
His vital signs are perceptibly deteriorating now, red and green numbers winking down down down.
Arthur is dying, the process suddenly activated and inexorable.
Arthur is dying, and Eames is powerless to reverse it.
Because this is not some crumbling con where he can supply deliverance with a steady hand, a smile and a bullet.
This is real. This is now. This is forever.
***Less than two hours later Arthur slips away in Eames’ arms, unconscious and unresponsive. His breathing had been sluggish, snail-slow, shallow gasps punctuated by periods of silence.
Ultimately the periods of silence, of non-breathing, win. Eames feels for a pulse only to have it flutter away from him, extinguished and exhausted.
It is the first day of spring, twenty-two months since diagnosis. Arthur is on the cusp of thirty-four and weighs exponentially less than he once did; he is a husk of the man he was but no less stubborn, no less resilient, no less magnificent.
Indeed, he may be more so.
His ribs are visible through the frail and paper-thin layer of skin overlying his skeleton.
Eames’ hands, burned and bandaged, could fit around the entire circumference of his thigh.
Activity swarms in his peripheral vision: Cobb, nurses, doctors, Yusuf, a social worker, an oncologist.
Afterwards there are so many people fucking touching him, not all at the same time but throughout the hour - a kiss as brittle as the brush of a butterfly against his forehead, a steadying hand upon his shoulder and clipped condolences in his ear, a warm forehead against his chest, a fidgeting godchild latching onto his little finger.
But all he can focus on is Arthur, Arthur, Arthur.
Arthur, who lived sixteen months longer than anyone thought he would or could or should.
For himself? For Eames? For the odd partnership, friendship, kinship that sprouted between them, inadvisable and inexplicable as those around them initially considered it to be?
Who knows?
All he can hold onto is the truth that, because of Arthur, for sixteen more months Eames was able to say and feel and believe “we” rather than “me.”
***The clock on the wall ticks on.
But they have run out of time.
***They bury him on a brisk, blustery day.
The service is simple, unembellished and minimalist. Or so he assumes, for everything is reduced to fragments of sensation and filaments of time.
Later, try as he might, he will not be able to remember anything that was said.
Instead, he will remember this: the gleam of James’ hair under the sun, the sombre sheen of Victoria’s hat seeming to complement the subdued hue of Cobb’s tie, the rivulets meandering down Pearson’s rugged face, the pinpricks of pain from his seared palms, the rustle in the trees overhead, the downpour of crisp yellow leaves unleashed by an especially strong current of wind.
He does not cry.
Not when Phillipa smashes her contorted face into the crook of his shoulder in a terrible sort of symmetry, unknowingly harking back to another funeral; that one had been rain-drenched and raw.
Not when the memories surge back, thousands upon thousands of moments and experiences. The bustle and swelter of mid-morning Mombasa versus the mist-shrouded and clouded evenings of Paris. Shiny sunburn stretching down an expanse of spine and skin. Beard burn and shared toiletries. Ice cream and indecision. Shirt cuffs and Somnacin.
He does not cry.
Not even when he notices a figure in the distance, a lone and skinny scarecrow amidst a wasteland of gravestones and crucifixes. It could be Arthur, but it isn't. Logically, he knows that. Mentally he is ready to grasp at any chance, any straw, however unreasonable it may be.
(Arthur’s twin brother raises a hand in wordless greeting but does not advance towards their knot of bodies. Eames is selfishly grateful, knows that he would not be able to handle the sight of him up close.)
He does not cry.
Because what is the use in crying when Arthur is not here to scoff at him, to kiss away his tears, to cry by his side?
***Yusuf drives him home in a ten year old pickup truck that once upon a time was used for road trips and rugs, groceries and garden tools. They do not speak, for there is nothing to be said.
As he turns to open the door, he feels a touch on his knee. The sense memory is enough to have him whip around, eyes wide and stomach roiling, only to see Yusuf - stricken and unusually nervous.
“Do you want us to-?” he begins, faltering. There are leaves caught in his curls, small and oval bursts of shocking yellow against the otherwise dark wisps of hair.
“No. But thank you. Thank you for coming.”
Yusuf frowns, hesitation etched into the edges of his mouth. At last; he simply nods, insists on a quick and fumbling side-hug (strange as it is for both of them) and scrambles out of the vehicle into the saloon waiting across the road, engine idling and Victoria behind the wheel. Cobb’s SUV is parked behind it, kids and Miles in the back.
The convoy of cars disappear into the horizon, leaving dust and desolation and Eames in their wake.
***Argus paws at his feet, sensing his unease but unaware as to the reason behind it. In a few hours though, increasingly perturbed, he will actively search for Arthur - sniffing in every corner of the house and fretfully staring at the front door.
There are a fuck load of casseroles and pasta bakes in the freezer, enough to last for weeks.
The dining table and kitchen counters overflow with a myriad of flowers: perennials, pot plants, bouquets.
Arthur’s shirts and shorts, ties and t-shirts, cufflinks and coats, socks and sweatpants are interspersed with Eames’ in their walk-in closet. His clothing is not, as one might assume, folded neatly and hung up. No, that distinction is awarded to Eames’.
Arthur?
Arthur is (was, he remembers, despair curdling in his throat, was) quite sloppy in the secrecy of his own quarters.
Eames kicks off his polished shoes at the foot of the staircase; he disregards the ringing telephone, the vibrating smartphone, the pinging of his laptop, and crawls into the(ir) unmade bed with Argus dutifully following.
The rumpled sheets are fragrant; they smell of sunshine and detergent but most of all, indulgent and intoxicating, Arthur. Arthur with the hollows into which Eames would fit his curves. Arthur of morning, Arthur of evening, Arthur of night. Arthur of everyday from here to infinity; or so Eames had once dared to dream.
He buries his face in a furry neck, eyes screwed shut, and concentrates on breathing.
In and out.
One and two.
Argus slobbers on his fingers plaintively, dark eyes soulful and earnest, a questioning whine deep in his throat.
In a pot by the closed window, a single orchid has budded but not yet bloomed.
Eames opens his eyes-
-to the sound of ragged breathing; his heart is hammering frantically in its cage of bone and tissue, muscle and blood.
He sits up, spine stiff and straight, blankets pooling at his waist.
A deluge of fleeting thoughts and scribbled images scuttle through his mind, too chaotic to discern above the maelstrom in his chest and the blizzard broiling beneath his brow.
And yet, even before his conscious self has had the chance to comprehend what is happening, his overwrought body reflexively relaxes back into the warmth of the mattress.
Because it already knows what this is (this head-heavy, eyes-bleary feeling) - it is the feeling of waking up.
Oh, Eames thinks, the stale air in his lungs escaping like hissing steam through his eyelids, his very pores. Or so it seems, at least. Oh, right. Oh, god.
He tastes inordinate relief, bittersweet, on the tip of his tongue and swears (shit, fuck, shit, thank you, thank you) at the ceiling, trying to calm down his frenetic heartbeat. When that does not suffice, he yanks his share of the covers over his head, crushes his face into a damp and shapeless pillow and tries to ride it out: shoulders trembling, feet interlocked, cold hands jammed between his thighs in a futile effort to harness heat.
There is a notion (unverifiable but persistent) that he has had this nightmare, or an arbitrary permutation of it, before.
Not recently but some weeks past, perhaps.
Certainly, as the nature of his profession entails and his own innate curiosity dictates, there is the perverse temptation to nit-pick at the details of the dream while it is still fresh, still within reach - to analyse and theorise, to uncover sinister symbolism and ominous premonitions about the future, the past, the present, his parental role models, his choices.
But the specifics are fading fast now, retreating to the hazy recesses of his subconscious and dissolving there like sunken treasure in the murky depths of an unexplored ocean trench.
He lets them go gladly and gratefully, unwilling to prod and poke at the cobwebbed corners of his mind like some inquisitive or impetuous child.
Because some things ought to remain buried.
***The first fringes of dawn filter in through the flimsy drapes, throwing alternating patterns of light and dark upon the wrinkled double bed. He must have been reading; the bedside lamp glows soft and amber, illuminating an upended novel and tea-blemished mug.
Intuitively Eames turns to check on the body asleep next to him, perhaps intending to graze a kiss to a scapula or to wind his arms around a slim waist or to even gently twine his fingers around the girth of a half-hard cock.
But he is alone.
The other end of the bed is unused; corners tucked in and pillows plump.
Of course. He exhales despondency and disappointment, removing tear-blurred glasses (frames slightly crooked from falling asleep in them far too often) to scrub fitfully at his crusty face. Of course. How stupid of me.
He rolls back over and wills himself to sleep, instinctively withdrawing into a foetal position, pulling his knees up to his chest.
Vivid, unrelenting flashbacks of the dream niggle and itch at his skin but he refuses to fall into that trap.
But the mind can be torturous and unforgiving when it so desires.
It seemed so real. It all seemed so fucking real, it reminds him incessantly.
He wearily orders it to shut the hell up because of course dreams seem real while you are in them. Even the most amateur of dreamsharers knows that.
However, it is of little use for, insidiously, an unwanted thought worms itself into his head.
Panic is instantaneous and overwhelming, washing over him in thick dark constricting coils.
Although Eames knows, he fucking knows that this is reality and not some twisted fucking dream (or worse, some twisted fuck’s dream) he sits up anyway, kicking back the covers and reaching blindly for his totem. The mere feel of it, firmly enclosed within his rough palm, is alleviating.
Nonetheless, sleep proves to be elusive.
He mulishly wastes a good half hour tossing and turning agitatedly before finally conceding defeat.
Sheepishly Eames rechecks his phone, more thankful than he will ever admit to at finding no new messages or missed calls. Scrolling through the list of contacts (some deceased or exterminated, others missing or underground, most alive) he pauses on a particular name, thumb hovering indecisively over the green ‘call’ icon.
(Because: what if…what if.)
His breathing is still erratic, noisy, wet, jagged; it is the breathing of marathon runs and adrenaline fuelled cons, of long bouts of sex and-
That ill-advised train of thought is terminated swiftly, ruthlessly.
Licking his lips, Eames considers different time-zones and interrupted rest, the irrationality of unfounded worrying and the folly of feeling too fucking much.
In the end, he taps out a nondescript text. Frowning, he rewords it. Cursing, he rewrites it. Then, painstakingly, he deletes each individual letter and tosses the phone back onto the bed in disgust.
Sun creeps over the window sill. He blinks, dazzled, and has to look away because it is far too tempting to envision a golden-skinned apparition resting against the panes of glass, a mirage of fingers and buttons and shirt tails and limbs.
As morning approaches Eames shuffles downstairs, dressing gown gaping open. He sorts through the weekly mail. Cleans and re-cleans his arsenal of handguns. Brews two pots of tea. Washes, dries, irons and folds three loads of laundry in front of the television. Peers disgruntledly at weather reports and paid advertisements for blenders.
The suggestions of a second inhabitant are more apparent down here.
A singular brand of coffee hidden away atop a pantry shelf, out of place amidst all the boxes of tea.
Mail that is not addressed to Eames or any of his various aliases.
Shirts and trousers of differing sizes and styles.
Post-it notes stuck on the fridge, cramped with spidery handwriting.
However, these suggestions are misleading because the supposed second inhabitant has not lived here for a long while now.
Eames refuses to dwell on that, and is mostly (un)successful.
sixteen days afterwards.
As Eames is replanting daffodils in anticipation for the following spring, Argus pricks up his ears from where he is slumped beside the rusting watering can and snaking length of hosepipe, whimpering faintly. Eames refuses to react but continues to watch Argus, the ugly brown bulb in his grimy hand forgotten.
Finally (as if unable to contain himself any longer) Argus bounds up barking, yelping, dancing, going completely nutty; he hurtles at something behind Eames, tail a whiplash of tan and black.
Eames turns around, though he already knows.
And yes, there he is - standing in the middle of a sun-splattered and unkempt garden, overcoat neatly folded over one arm and travelling suitcase held in the other.
He spends some time fussing over Argus, gaze alternating between the overexcited dog and Eames.
Placing the suitcase and overcoat down next to the watering can, burgeoning smile warm and tentative, he steps over the trowel and potted daffodils; his shoes sink into the loam instantly. Eames could protest (your lovely shoes, my lovely garden bed) but he doesn’t.
“Hello,” Arthur breathes into his mouth, nipping at his lips experimentally as if seeking to relearn their shape, to test their texture, to savour the long-denied tang of skin.
“Welcome back,” Eames rumbles, simultaneously wan and wondering, easily curving forward into the kiss.
It is hopelessly mistimed: teeth clacking on teeth, noses colliding, too much saliva and not enough tongue.
They shove each other away, laughing; Arthur is exaggeratedly wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the cheeky bugger. Eames pulls him in again by the wrists growling how rude and come here.
This time they fit together as best as they know how, contours and cracks discovered and mapped over several years that stretch out behind them like an endless highway of trials and turmoil, tempers and theft.
It is not seamless by any means but they make do, purposefully overlooking niggling discomfort and underlying grievances for the meantime, content to delight in the here and now.
(Argus sniffs at their ankles, unimpressed.)
This time the kiss is unhurried and exploratory, generous and conciliatory: a pliant lower lip ensnared between uneven teeth, fingertips caressing stubble, the insipid taste of airline food almost overpowered by peppermint chewing gum. The core of Arthur’s mouth consists of unadulterated heat, soft and slick and sumptuous. Eames revels in it, probing and provoking mercilessly until Arthur swats at his shoulders insistently, starved for breath and flushed with want.
When they separate he finds that his muddy fingers are vacillating self-consciously at Arthur’s brow, having involuntarily and imprudently reached out to smooth away the weariness of jetlag and multiple connecting flights engraved into his forehead. He retracts them into a fist quickly, apprehensive.
Thoughtfully, Arthur cocks his head; his eyes are a little too sharp for Eames’ liking.
“Stress-gardening, are we?” His parted lips are red and puffy, words deceptively innocuous.
Eames shrugs, evasive and effusive, affecting an air of good-natured bemusement to mask the reciprocal thrill of arousal skittering around his skull. “Just felt like it.”
Though palpably unappeased, Arthur does not push or press to talk about it, whatever ‘it’ is.
Rocking to and fro from heel to tiptoe, he waits patiently as Eames finishes replanting the remaining daffodils. He updates Eames about the outcome of the three-month-long con in a quiet and understated manner that is uniquely him, interweaving playful anecdotes and concise praise about the other team members where it is due.
Unhappy at being ignored Argus noses at his palms adoringly and Arthur accommodates by burying his face in his silky ruff, humming greetings and consolations and apologies for being away for so long.
Eames stares at the picture they make, twinges of remembrance (a dream, a disease, a death) stirring in his chest.
“Jealous?” Arthur catches his gaze speculatively, fingers scratching behind Argus’ ears.
“Obviously,” he counters, rolling his eyes, only half-mocking.
***Later that night Arthur crowds him onto the bed without warning or explanation, demanding and yet cautious, as if worried that Eames might startle and bolt. He brands greetings into the juncture of Eames’ thighs, brushes ticklish consolations into the soles of his feet and croons musical apologies into his vertebrae.
When he nuzzles at Eames’ scruffy neck, his lips are icy against the pulse point there.
Still later, as they lie tangled together on crumpled blankets, Eames grips those protruding hipbones harder than he usually would - hard enough to bruise and ache tomorrow. He bites into firm trapezius muscle, leaving behind a rosy ring of teeth marks and saliva. And when Arthur comes (shaking and whining, explosions simmering beneath his eyelids, toes curling) Eames holds onto him long after the reverberations, arms pinioning him to the bed.
As dawn chases night through the slumbering sky Arthur cards his fingers through Eames’ damp hair, sucking promises into the arch of his neck. A light breeze drifts through the room, chill against their heated skin.
“All right?” he pauses to murmur, sweat-soaked and sweet.
“Maybe,” Eames replies, tracing unsolvable equations into Arthur’s clavicle, running his fingertips carefully along the line of his long, long neck.
He is not quite sure, yet.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Arthur mumbles drowsily, eyelids drooping.
(And how can Eames not kiss him for that?)
In a pot by the open window, a single orchid is in bloom.
The stretch of grey beach is deserted this early in the morning, save for a handful of zealous surfers vying for waves and the occasional elderly couple powerwalking along the concrete esplanade.
They slow down to a stroll; Arthur needs to catch his breath (although the side-effects of chemo have mostly worn off by now, his energy levels still flag faster than they normally would) and Eames uses the opportunity to roll out a twinge in his shoulder from sleeping at an awkward angle.
Arthur yawns without bothering to cover his mouth, curving into a lethargic stretch, thin vest riding up to reveal a swathe of skin and a trail of dark hair dipping down into his shorts.
He is resplendent even like this: sweaty, hungry, pissed at being awake, barely able to string together a sentence.
Unbidden, the words rise up out of Eames, bubbling over.
Some part of him wants to hold back, to prolong this patchwork mimicry of functionality for as long as possible.
Because even a half-life with Arthur is better than a full life without him.
Eames winces, salt in his nostrils and sweat dotting his upper lip. God, he sounds pathetic.
But it spills out, burning the corners of his mouth, unnervingly composed and detached. Ensuring that they are not being watched (as with most things, they prefer their affection to remain private and unobserved) he presses his nose to a sallow cheek, fingers curling around the nape of Arthur’s neck to jerk ineffectually at the short velvety hair there.
“I’ll be all right, you know. Don’t stay because of me.”
Arthur snorts, beads of sea spray pooling at the notch of his throat. Eames wants to lick that hollow clean, run the flat of his tongue across his clavicles, bite into the taut vee shaped by the muscles in his neck.
Shit, he thinks, shit. How is it possible to want, to still want, to still want so much more?
“Don’t think so highly of yourself, fucker,” Arthur sniffs. But his eyes waver between really? and thank you.
Eames grins, kicking at an outcrop of serrated limestone. “Careful. I’m responsible for your pain meds.”
Arthur punches him in the arm and laughs, rusty and breathless, spiralling away just out of reach.
***“I really do think you’ll be all right.” Arthur is absentmindedly tattooing kisses along the blue-green veins at Eames’ wrist now that they are hidden behind an embankment of rock. “You might not think so, right now, but you will be. You’re just that sort of adaptable person.”
“Shut up,” Eames grunts, jabbing him in the side with an elbow. “You’re ruining the sunrise.”
Arthur butts him in the shoulder with his head, gently, doing that thing with his mouth that looks like a smile but could conceivably be a generous scowl. “I’m being serious, asshole.”
“Well, I think you’re being a romantic, supercilious bastard,” Eames makes sure to grin though the execution is admittedly flawed, tugging at a twirl of dusky hair. “What happened to being manly men, hm?”
“You’ll be okay?” Arthur persists quietly, as if Eames had not spoken, as if this answer is the be all and end all.
(Maybe it is.)
“What do you think, since you seem to be the expert here?” He’s not going to say it.
“I think you’re stalling.” Dawning sunlight catches the creases at the edge of his eyes.
He is as beautiful as the day Eames realised that he was, and it isn’t fair.
“Race you back,” he offers abruptly, wiping his frosty palms on his shorts and then hauling Arthur to his feet.
Arthur bites his lip, stifling a laugh. Eames could kiss it out of him, violent and stinging. “You’re so emotionally backward.”
“And yet, you still put up with me,” he replies evenly, if only to see the glimmer of understanding in Arthur’s eyes, the shrewd slope of his smirk.
They are edging close to dangerous territory now, things left unsaid and unprofessed. It is farcical, of course it is. They’ve lived together for three years now - hell, had even bought a puppy together (now a rambunctious monstrosity of a dog gradually eating them out of house and home), conforming to that stereotype of cohabitating contentment - and yet, they can’t say this one trivial thing aloud to each other?
“I put up with you for your orgasmic toasted cheese sandwiches,” Arthur is saying, true to form, looking directly at him, straightforward and seemingly sincere.
When Arthur lies he stares the usually unfortunate recipient right in the eye, as he would down the barrel of a gun, intent and watchful. There is no blushing, no averting of his gaze and no overtly obvious tells. It is almost childish - a brazen game of let-us-see-who-will-blink-or-look-away-first.
Eames can generally pinpoint when Arthur is lying, through a fiendish mix of guesswork, deduction, intuition and luck. Certainly, his accuracy is not one hundred per cent, but it is high enough to vex Arthur. As much as he doggedly tries to hide it Eames reads it in the flare of his nostrils and the indignant twitch of his bristly brows.
“Whatever you say,” he leers, leaning well into Arthur’s personal bubble until he is a mere inch away from his mouth. Interestingly enough, Arthur’s eyelids automatically flutter to a close as if against his own volition. His lips are bleeding pink from the chill, the constellation of moles by his nose stark against bleached skin.
Eames doesn’t kiss him.
He does, however, take off jogging in the opposite direction, footfalls heavy.
He strains to hear above the whistling wind, the roar of the irascible sea, and is rewarded for his trouble.
There is a sharp intake of breath and unchecked outrage in a reedy voice as it bellows you motherfucking cheat.
There is the tread of sneakers hastening to catch up, Argus enthusiastically barking in the distance.
There are two elongated shadows thrown against the concrete walkway, chasing one another.
There is a certain comfort in knowing that some things don’t change.
***When things fall apart at the seams they do so capriciously, without consideration or care, inconvenient and disruptive.
But to say that it is entirely unexpected would be dishonest.
For Arthur and Eames anticipated and planned for this day many, many months ago.
One day, one perfectly ordinary day, the pain simply builds up into a crescendo; it becomes a caterwaul of enraged nerve endings unable to be assuaged by analgesics, sleep or misdirection.
Eames finds him curled into the carpet, nearly sobbing with each spasm of agony splitting his sides.
No. The thought is flittering, soon washed away by adrenaline. Please. No.
Spurred by instinct and training and dread, he helps Arthur into the passenger seat of the car, grabs the overnight bag that has been sitting beside the stairs for weeks and speed-dials their doctor. He will also need to inform Cobb and the neighbour who had agreed to look after the house and Argus for some days if required.
But not now, not right now.
“Fuck, fuck, motherfucker,” Arthur grimaces the entire way to the hospital, a hellish drive that veers precariously close to breaking multiple road rules and speed limits, squirming restlessly, seatbelt chafing against his chest.
Eames, a dull throb at his temple and eyes on the road, echoes the sentiment.
***Hooked up to an army of whirring machines, Arthur is bed-ridden and unable to consume much besides sparse bites of his favourite ice cream, three spoonfuls of cereal or a slice of grapefruit.
At first he refuses the narcotics (I don’t want to be insensible; I want to remember) but as the pain punctures through the barriers afforded by medication with shattering and devastating frequency, he consents.
“I’m sorry,” he tells Eames, fingers clawing into bland sheets, unashamed but also uncertain. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
“You idiot,” Eames kisses him thrice: forehead, nose, mouth, and whispers, “You idiot.”
***Before long, Arthur is attached to IV fluid drips and syringe drivers that deliver a regulated dose of morphine at a consistent rate. It is an improvement and provides the much-needed pain relief despite the pervasive fear that with too high a dose he might descend into delirium or hallucinations.
As it is he is straddling the boundary between sleep and stupor, flitting in and out of consciousness, each interval of wakefulness significantly shorter than the last.
There are times when his eyes are glazed and unseeing.
There are times when he is alert and even animated.
There is talk of transferring him to a hospice but Eames knows, deep down, that he will not last that long.
***Eames is purchasing his third coffee at the spacious cafeteria, the hospital equivalent of a food court, filled with anxious families and sleep-deprived medical registrars, when it happens. He had just stepped out for a breather, the routine of walking offering some reprieve to his frazzled and frenzied mind.
As he turns to head back, pocketing the change, he sees Yusuf hurrying towards him seeking eye contact and gesturing when he finds it. He is not running. But he is not dawdling, either.
“Eames,” he says when in range, eyes large and round and opaque, hands reaching out to catch at his sleeve. “Eames.”
There is a buzzing in his ears; white noise that heightens in volume and pitch as he follows Yusuf back to the room, throat clogged and brain sputtering out wild theories and horrifying conclusions. Coffee sloshes over his hand in the reckless haste; the streak of resultant heat is momentarily blinding and breath-taking.
He pushes through the pain and ignores the basic tenants of first aid, increasing the pace of his stride instead.
(Because: what if…what if.)
But no, he is wrong, because Arthur is waiting for him.
They have ten marvellous minutes together in a dim and disinfected room that is empty but for themselves, Arthur mumbling groggily It’s time, Eames, I’m ready and Eames confessing I know it is, I’m here along with a few other soft and secret things that cause Arthur to smile and roll eyes that are so very dark and dilated in his ashen, haggard face.
“Thank you,” Arthur kisses him thrice: forehead, nose, mouth, and whispers, “Thank you.”
Eventually his eyelids fuse shut and he drifts into a coma that is partially induced by the morphine and partially a consequence of multiple organ systems shutting down.
Eames holds his hand the entire while.
It is icy, mottled blue, rough and wizened like that of a cadaver.
He runs his thumb over the knuckles, murmuring words that he does not entirely mean and surely cannot guarantee, words that lilt and crack in tune to Arthur’s quietening deepening lengthening breathing: everything will be okay, you’ll see, everything will be okay, I promise.
***The lumpy brown blisters scattered across his scalded hand burst and slough off, oozing clear serous fluid. The new skin beneath is pale pink and terrifying in its delicacy, contrasted against the surrounding flesh which is angrily inflamed and sore to touch.
It is hardly necessary but a vigilant nurse insists on removing the collapsed flaps of skin with forceps and wrapping up the wound in gauze. She speaks to him as she goes through the motions, instructions cool and concise, though she must be aware that he is hardly listening.
His thoughts have been left behind in a room two doors over, across the hallway.
When she is done Eames thanks her in a croaking, tinder-dry voice that sounds nothing like his own.
Her craggy features split into a weather-beaten smile, wistful and weary.
In that brief instant he wonders about the scores of men, women and children she has nourished and nurtured, comforted and cleaned up. He wonders about the hospital beds under her watch that have been emptied, either by demise or resolution. He wonders if she still feels as strongly as she might have when she was an intern, freshly graduated and out of her depth amidst this sea of suffering.
The moment passes, and she moves on. Eames is left alone with her scent of starch, sterility and hand sanitizer.
To him, it smells like death.
***Arthur is mostly quiet, so quiet that Eames often has to feel his pulse for proof of life.
But the following evening, the cadence of his respiration changes unexpectedly - each breath harsh and gurgling, rattling against the accumulated saliva and mucous secretions in his airways. With each strained and wheezing attempt at inspiration, the skin surrounding his Adam’s apple is sucked in with the force of the exertion.
Eames can barely stand it. Cobb whisks Phillipa out of the room, the line of his mouth grim. Mercifully, James is already out in the gift shop with Miles, deliberating over get-well-soon balloons and flowers.
His vital signs are perceptibly deteriorating now, red and green numbers winking down down down.
Arthur is dying, the process suddenly activated and inexorable.
Arthur is dying, and Eames is powerless to reverse it.
Because this is not some crumbling con where he can supply deliverance with a steady hand, a smile and a bullet.
This is real. This is now. This is forever.
***Less than two hours later Arthur slips away in Eames’ arms, unconscious and unresponsive. His breathing had been sluggish, snail-slow, shallow gasps punctuated by periods of silence.
Ultimately the periods of silence, of non-breathing, win. Eames feels for a pulse only to have it flutter away from him, extinguished and exhausted.
It is the first day of spring, twenty-two months since diagnosis. Arthur is on the cusp of thirty-four and weighs exponentially less than he once did; he is a husk of the man he was but no less stubborn, no less resilient, no less magnificent.
Indeed, he may be more so.
His ribs are visible through the frail and paper-thin layer of skin overlying his skeleton.
Eames’ hands, burned and bandaged, could fit around the entire circumference of his thigh.
Activity swarms in his peripheral vision: Cobb, nurses, doctors, Yusuf, a social worker, an oncologist.
Afterwards there are so many people fucking touching him, not all at the same time but throughout the hour - a kiss as brittle as the brush of a butterfly against his forehead, a steadying hand upon his shoulder and clipped condolences in his ear, a warm forehead against his chest, a fidgeting godchild latching onto his little finger.
But all he can focus on is Arthur, Arthur, Arthur.
Arthur, who lived sixteen months longer than anyone thought he would or could or should.
For himself? For Eames? For the odd partnership, friendship, kinship that sprouted between them, inadvisable and inexplicable as those around them initially considered it to be?
Who knows?
All he can hold onto is the truth that, because of Arthur, for sixteen more months Eames was able to say and feel and believe “we” rather than “me.”
***The clock on the wall ticks on.
But they have run out of time.
***They bury him on a brisk, blustery day.
The service is simple, unembellished and minimalist. Or so he assumes, for everything is reduced to fragments of sensation and filaments of time.
Later, try as he might, he will not be able to remember anything that was said.
Instead, he will remember this: the gleam of James’ hair under the sun, the sombre sheen of Victoria’s hat seeming to complement the subdued hue of Cobb’s tie, the rivulets meandering down Pearson’s rugged face, the pinpricks of pain from his seared palms, the rustle in the trees overhead, the downpour of crisp yellow leaves unleashed by an especially strong current of wind.
He does not cry.
Not when Phillipa smashes her contorted face into the crook of his shoulder in a terrible sort of symmetry, unknowingly harking back to another funeral; that one had been rain-drenched and raw.
Not when the memories surge back, thousands upon thousands of moments and experiences. The bustle and swelter of mid-morning Mombasa versus the mist-shrouded and clouded evenings of Paris. Shiny sunburn stretching down an expanse of spine and skin. Beard burn and shared toiletries. Ice cream and indecision. Shirt cuffs and Somnacin.
He does not cry.
Not even when he notices a figure in the distance, a lone and skinny scarecrow amidst a wasteland of gravestones and crucifixes. It could be Arthur, but it isn't. Logically, he knows that. Mentally he is ready to grasp at any chance, any straw, however unreasonable it may be.
(Arthur’s twin brother raises a hand in wordless greeting but does not advance towards their knot of bodies. Eames is selfishly grateful, knows that he would not be able to handle the sight of him up close.)
He does not cry.
Because what is the use in crying when Arthur is not here to scoff at him, to kiss away his tears, to cry by his side?
***Yusuf drives him home in a ten year old pickup truck that once upon a time was used for road trips and rugs, groceries and garden tools. They do not speak, for there is nothing to be said.
As he turns to open the door, he feels a touch on his knee. The sense memory is enough to have him whip around, eyes wide and stomach roiling, only to see Yusuf - stricken and unusually nervous.
“Do you want us to-?” he begins, faltering. There are leaves caught in his curls, small and oval bursts of shocking yellow against the otherwise dark wisps of hair.
“No. But thank you. Thank you for coming.”
Yusuf frowns, hesitation etched into the edges of his mouth. At last; he simply nods, insists on a quick and fumbling side-hug (strange as it is for both of them) and scrambles out of the vehicle into the saloon waiting across the road, engine idling and Victoria behind the wheel. Cobb’s SUV is parked behind it, kids and Miles in the back.
The convoy of cars disappear into the horizon, leaving dust and desolation and Eames in their wake.
***Argus paws at his feet, sensing his unease but unaware as to the reason behind it. In a few hours though, increasingly perturbed, he will actively search for Arthur - sniffing in every corner of the house and fretfully staring at the front door.
There are a fuck load of casseroles and pasta bakes in the freezer, enough to last for weeks.
The dining table and kitchen counters overflow with a myriad of flowers: perennials, pot plants, bouquets.
Arthur’s shirts and shorts, ties and t-shirts, cufflinks and coats, socks and sweatpants are interspersed with Eames’ in their walk-in closet. His clothing is not, as one might assume, folded neatly and hung up. No, that distinction is awarded to Eames’.
Arthur?
Arthur is (was, he remembers, despair curdling in his throat, was) quite sloppy in the secrecy of his own quarters.
Eames kicks off his polished shoes at the foot of the staircase; he disregards the ringing telephone, the vibrating smartphone, the pinging of his laptop, and crawls into the(ir) unmade bed with Argus dutifully following.
The rumpled sheets are fragrant; they smell of sunshine and detergent but most of all, indulgent and intoxicating, Arthur. Arthur with the hollows into which Eames would fit his curves. Arthur of morning, Arthur of evening, Arthur of night. Arthur of everyday from here to infinity; or so Eames had once dared to dream.
He buries his face in a furry neck, eyes screwed shut, and concentrates on breathing.
In and out.
One and two.
Argus slobbers on his fingers plaintively, dark eyes soulful and earnest, a questioning whine deep in his throat.
In a pot by the closed window, a single orchid has budded but not yet bloomed.
Eames opens his eyes-
-to the sound of ragged breathing; his heart is hammering frantically in its cage of bone and tissue, muscle and blood.
He sits up, spine stiff and straight, blankets pooling at his waist.
A deluge of fleeting thoughts and scribbled images scuttle through his mind, too chaotic to discern above the maelstrom in his chest and the blizzard broiling beneath his brow.
And yet, even before his conscious self has had the chance to comprehend what is happening, his overwrought body reflexively relaxes back into the warmth of the mattress.
Because it already knows what this is (this head-heavy, eyes-bleary feeling) - it is the feeling of waking up.
Oh, Eames thinks, the stale air in his lungs escaping like hissing steam through his eyelids, his very pores. Or so it seems, at least. Oh, right. Oh, god.
He tastes inordinate relief, bittersweet, on the tip of his tongue and swears (shit, fuck, shit, thank you, thank you) at the ceiling, trying to calm down his frenetic heartbeat. When that does not suffice, he yanks his share of the covers over his head, crushes his face into a damp and shapeless pillow and tries to ride it out: shoulders trembling, feet interlocked, cold hands jammed between his thighs in a futile effort to harness heat.
There is a notion (unverifiable but persistent) that he has had this nightmare, or an arbitrary permutation of it, before.
Not recently but some weeks past, perhaps.
Certainly, as the nature of his profession entails and his own innate curiosity dictates, there is the perverse temptation to nit-pick at the details of the dream while it is still fresh, still within reach - to analyse and theorise, to uncover sinister symbolism and ominous premonitions about the future, the past, the present, his parental role models, his choices.
But the specifics are fading fast now, retreating to the hazy recesses of his subconscious and dissolving there like sunken treasure in the murky depths of an unexplored ocean trench.
He lets them go gladly and gratefully, unwilling to prod and poke at the cobwebbed corners of his mind like some inquisitive or impetuous child.
Because some things ought to remain buried.
***The first fringes of dawn filter in through the flimsy drapes, throwing alternating patterns of light and dark upon the wrinkled double bed. He must have been reading; the bedside lamp glows soft and amber, illuminating an upended novel and tea-blemished mug.
Intuitively Eames turns to check on the body asleep next to him, perhaps intending to graze a kiss to a scapula or to wind his arms around a slim waist or to even gently twine his fingers around the girth of a half-hard cock.
But he is alone.
The other end of the bed is unused; corners tucked in and pillows plump.
Of course. He exhales despondency and disappointment, removing tear-blurred glasses (frames slightly crooked from falling asleep in them far too often) to scrub fitfully at his crusty face. Of course. How stupid of me.
He rolls back over and wills himself to sleep, instinctively withdrawing into a foetal position, pulling his knees up to his chest.
Vivid, unrelenting flashbacks of the dream niggle and itch at his skin but he refuses to fall into that trap.
But the mind can be torturous and unforgiving when it so desires.
It seemed so real. It all seemed so fucking real, it reminds him incessantly.
He wearily orders it to shut the hell up because of course dreams seem real while you are in them. Even the most amateur of dreamsharers knows that.
However, it is of little use for, insidiously, an unwanted thought worms itself into his head.
Panic is instantaneous and overwhelming, washing over him in thick dark constricting coils.
Although Eames knows, he fucking knows that this is reality and not some twisted fucking dream (or worse, some twisted fuck’s dream) he sits up anyway, kicking back the covers and reaching blindly for his totem. The mere feel of it, firmly enclosed within his rough palm, is alleviating.
Nonetheless, sleep proves to be elusive.
He mulishly wastes a good half hour tossing and turning agitatedly before finally conceding defeat.
Sheepishly Eames rechecks his phone, more thankful than he will ever admit to at finding no new messages or missed calls. Scrolling through the list of contacts (some deceased or exterminated, others missing or underground, most alive) he pauses on a particular name, thumb hovering indecisively over the green ‘call’ icon.
(Because: what if…what if.)
His breathing is still erratic, noisy, wet, jagged; it is the breathing of marathon runs and adrenaline fuelled cons, of long bouts of sex and-
That ill-advised train of thought is terminated swiftly, ruthlessly.
Licking his lips, Eames considers different time-zones and interrupted rest, the irrationality of unfounded worrying and the folly of feeling too fucking much.
In the end, he taps out a nondescript text. Frowning, he rewords it. Cursing, he rewrites it. Then, painstakingly, he deletes each individual letter and tosses the phone back onto the bed in disgust.
Sun creeps over the window sill. He blinks, dazzled, and has to look away because it is far too tempting to envision a golden-skinned apparition resting against the panes of glass, a mirage of fingers and buttons and shirt tails and limbs.
As morning approaches Eames shuffles downstairs, dressing gown gaping open. He sorts through the weekly mail. Cleans and re-cleans his arsenal of handguns. Brews two pots of tea. Washes, dries, irons and folds three loads of laundry in front of the television. Peers disgruntledly at weather reports and paid advertisements for blenders.
The suggestions of a second inhabitant are more apparent down here.
A singular brand of coffee hidden away atop a pantry shelf, out of place amidst all the boxes of tea.
Mail that is not addressed to Eames or any of his various aliases.
Shirts and trousers of differing sizes and styles.
Post-it notes stuck on the fridge, cramped with spidery handwriting.
However, these suggestions are misleading because the supposed second inhabitant has not lived here for a long while now.
Eames refuses to dwell on that, and is mostly (un)successful.
sixteen days afterwards.
As Eames is replanting daffodils in anticipation for the following spring, Argus pricks up his ears from where he is slumped beside the rusting watering can and snaking length of hosepipe, whimpering faintly. Eames refuses to react but continues to watch Argus, the ugly brown bulb in his grimy hand forgotten.
Finally (as if unable to contain himself any longer) Argus bounds up barking, yelping, dancing, going completely nutty; he hurtles at something behind Eames, tail a whiplash of tan and black.
Eames turns around, though he already knows.
And yes, there he is - standing in the middle of a sun-splattered and unkempt garden, overcoat neatly folded over one arm and travelling suitcase held in the other.
He spends some time fussing over Argus, gaze alternating between the overexcited dog and Eames.
Placing the suitcase and overcoat down next to the watering can, burgeoning smile warm and tentative, he steps over the trowel and potted daffodils; his shoes sink into the loam instantly. Eames could protest (your lovely shoes, my lovely garden bed) but he doesn’t.
“Hello,” Arthur breathes into his mouth, nipping at his lips experimentally as if seeking to relearn their shape, to test their texture, to savour the long-denied tang of skin.
“Welcome back,” Eames rumbles, simultaneously wan and wondering, easily curving forward into the kiss.
It is hopelessly mistimed: teeth clacking on teeth, noses colliding, too much saliva and not enough tongue.
They shove each other away, laughing; Arthur is exaggeratedly wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, the cheeky bugger. Eames pulls him in again by the wrists growling how rude and come here.
This time they fit together as best as they know how, contours and cracks discovered and mapped over several years that stretch out behind them like an endless highway of trials and turmoil, tempers and theft.
It is not seamless by any means but they make do, purposefully overlooking niggling discomfort and underlying grievances for the meantime, content to delight in the here and now.
(Argus sniffs at their ankles, unimpressed.)
This time the kiss is unhurried and exploratory, generous and conciliatory: a pliant lower lip ensnared between uneven teeth, fingertips caressing stubble, the insipid taste of airline food almost overpowered by peppermint chewing gum. The core of Arthur’s mouth consists of unadulterated heat, soft and slick and sumptuous. Eames revels in it, probing and provoking mercilessly until Arthur swats at his shoulders insistently, starved for breath and flushed with want.
When they separate he finds that his muddy fingers are vacillating self-consciously at Arthur’s brow, having involuntarily and imprudently reached out to smooth away the weariness of jetlag and multiple connecting flights engraved into his forehead. He retracts them into a fist quickly, apprehensive.
Thoughtfully, Arthur cocks his head; his eyes are a little too sharp for Eames’ liking.
“Stress-gardening, are we?” His parted lips are red and puffy, words deceptively innocuous.
Eames shrugs, evasive and effusive, affecting an air of good-natured bemusement to mask the reciprocal thrill of arousal skittering around his skull. “Just felt like it.”
Though palpably unappeased, Arthur does not push or press to talk about it, whatever ‘it’ is.
Rocking to and fro from heel to tiptoe, he waits patiently as Eames finishes replanting the remaining daffodils. He updates Eames about the outcome of the three-month-long con in a quiet and understated manner that is uniquely him, interweaving playful anecdotes and concise praise about the other team members where it is due.
Unhappy at being ignored Argus noses at his palms adoringly and Arthur accommodates by burying his face in his silky ruff, humming greetings and consolations and apologies for being away for so long.
Eames stares at the picture they make, twinges of remembrance (a dream, a disease, a death) stirring in his chest.
“Jealous?” Arthur catches his gaze speculatively, fingers scratching behind Argus’ ears.
“Obviously,” he counters, rolling his eyes, only half-mocking.
***Later that night Arthur crowds him onto the bed without warning or explanation, demanding and yet cautious, as if worried that Eames might startle and bolt. He brands greetings into the juncture of Eames’ thighs, brushes ticklish consolations into the soles of his feet and croons musical apologies into his vertebrae.
When he nuzzles at Eames’ scruffy neck, his lips are icy against the pulse point there.
Still later, as they lie tangled together on crumpled blankets, Eames grips those protruding hipbones harder than he usually would - hard enough to bruise and ache tomorrow. He bites into firm trapezius muscle, leaving behind a rosy ring of teeth marks and saliva. And when Arthur comes (shaking and whining, explosions simmering beneath his eyelids, toes curling) Eames holds onto him long after the reverberations, arms pinioning him to the bed.
As dawn chases night through the slumbering sky Arthur cards his fingers through Eames’ damp hair, sucking promises into the arch of his neck. A light breeze drifts through the room, chill against their heated skin.
“All right?” he pauses to murmur, sweat-soaked and sweet.
“Maybe,” Eames replies, tracing unsolvable equations into Arthur’s clavicle, running his fingertips carefully along the line of his long, long neck.
He is not quite sure, yet.
“Whenever you’re ready,” Arthur mumbles drowsily, eyelids drooping.
(And how can Eames not kiss him for that?)
In a pot by the open window, a single orchid is in bloom.