Porn, Kitsch & Firearms
Rating: R
Total word count: 3,102
Pairing(s) /Character(s): Arthur/Eames
Warnings: Mention of non-canon character death.
Summary: Arthur collects Precious Moments figurines. He places them neatly in front of his gun collection.
Beta(s): The lovely sneaqui & immoral_crow
Authors Note:The title is from the song “Porn, Kitsch & Firearms", on the Skold vs. KMFDM album though it isn’t based on the song necessarily. It is really inspired by my insane brain, and my mother’s former collection of Precious Moments figurines. If any of you knew my mother, you would think it absurd that she ever, in her life, possessed these creepy little statues. In my mind, she’s much like Arthur: much too bad-ass for cutesy ceramics.
No, I don’t know if the statue I describe actually exists, but I know that this one does. And I could swear I’ve seen one mimicking the classic Coppertone suntan lotion ad with the the dog pulling off the kid’s bottoms.
____
“They’re looking at me.”
Eames knows he’s whining, being completely irrational about this, but he doesn’t care. He’s uncomfortable, and that’s absolutely unacceptable when Arthur is pressing his warm, half-naked body to his front and forcing his tongue inside his mouth. He would love to be able to concentrate solely on Arthur, but that, at the moment, is impossible.
“Don’t be an asshole, Eames,” Arthur grimaces, his deft fingers making quick work undoing Eames’ shirt buttons. He doesn’t stop kissing, but Eames presses on, getting his words out between gasps for air.
“It’s bad enough that we fuck in front of your wall of guns. If people could see us they would think we’re insane. But the dolls? That’s just fucking creepy, Arthur.”
Eames does not like dolls. He never has. The eyes are what bother him. They’re unmoving, and yet they follow him wherever he goes, unblinking. Whenever his forges are under construction, the eyes are glassy like a doll’s. He perfects them, until he’s not staring back at himself in the mirror with dead eyes. He can’t let it go until that part of the transformation is complete. It’s not obsessive. It’s not.
“They’re not dolls,” Arthur replies, his tongue licking a stripe up Eames’ now exposed chest.
“Whatever. You have an arsenal of weaponry, most of which is illegal, with porcelain figurines propped in front of it. You realize if anyone, other than myself, saw this, they would think you are a bloody serial killer?”
Eames turns his gaze away from the soulless, teardrop eyes. They’re completely out of proportion, meant to make the statues look innocent and cute; but instead, it just makes them look like terrifying, little alien babies. Or what he supposes aliens look like, since that’s what movies would lead him to believe. Eames also does not like aliens. Maybe. He’s never encountered one, and he hopes he doesn’t ever have to.
“People already think I’m a serial killer,” Arthur replies unbothered, in the same voice he uses every time Eames compares him to some form of murderous creature. He goes for Eames’ belt next, pulling the leather through its metal buckle with practiced ease.
“I’m not talking about others thinking you kill people, but have a good reason to, Arthur. I’m talking about people thinking you make lamps out of vertebrae and wear human skins as prom dresses.”
Arthur kneels in front of him, mouthing at his erection through his briefs. Eames is momentarily distracted from his tirade by how beautiful Arthur looks with his eyes closed, mouth parted, and tongue flicking out across the dark cotton barrier. He drags his fingers lightly through Arthur’s hair.
“I would never wear a prom dress,” Arthur murmurs. The heat of his breath makes Eames gasp; his grip tightens reflexively in Arthur’s hair. Arthur’s tone is matter of fact, as if what Eames had just suggested was not absurd in the slightest. As if Arthur had contemplated the logistics of turning human hides into clothing before, but had written it off as a waste of time.
“Now you are being purposefully obtuse,” Eames replies when he regains the ability to think. Arthur weighing the fashionable nature of skin dresses is not the point. The point is that the dolls are creepy, and Eames is just barely tolerating them in favor of Arthur’s mouth on his cock.
“They were a gift.” The statement is delivered with an air of finality that means Arthur is done talking about this, and Eames should shut up if he knows what’s good for him. He purposefully ignores that signal, which is unfortunate because Arthur is just wrapping his beautiful lips around the head of his cock in a very delightful manner. He pushes on.
“That doesn’t mean you have to put them on display. I’m sure there is a cozy little box that they can live in somewhere.”
“You are such an asshole,” Arthur sighs. He pulls away, sitting back on his heels. Eames’ hips jerk forward at the loss of contact, searching for the warmth of Arthur’s mouth again. He should kick himself for pressing the issue.
“But you love me?” Eames tries. Arthur is clearly upset, and Eames hopes the tacky joke will put him at ease.
“I’m not putting them away,” Arthur says flatly.
“Can we at least turn them around?”
Fuck this phobia, he thinks, for ruining what he knows would have been a spectacular blow job. Arthur gives an exasperated huff before standing. Eames swallows nervously. He may have just pissed Arthur off enough that he’s going to be sleeping alone for a week. Arthur grabs him by the wrist and drags him to the living room, away from the creepy little ceramic creations. He shoves Eames onto his knees in front of the suede couch.
“I’ll give you something else to focus on then,” Arthur says as he undoes his own pants. It’s better, but Eames knows that the figurines are still in the bedroom, waiting.
***
“They’re disturbing, darling. Statues of children always are. And why are that one’s trousers down? What kind of message is that?”
Eames had been so good, had managed to push the frightening little ceramic children to the back of his mind until now. His timing is truly terrible. Arthur is leaning over him, hair loose and curling in his face, sweat beading deliciously along his pale skin and dripping down to meet at their joined hips. He’s rocking into him at a nice steady pace that has Eames’ nerves thrumming in pleasure. Eames wants nothing more than to lose himself in the moment, to truly enjoy the feel of Arthur’s cock stretching him out, but every time he opens his eyes, he can see them in his peripheral vision.
“I can’t believe you are bringing this up right now,” Arthur pants, thrusting his hips forward. His pace doesn’t break, but the snap of his hips becomes sharper, like a punishment.
“You have a statue of a half naked boy in your room. What am I to think?”
“I can’t believe you can find a way to make Precious Moments figurines dirty.”
Arthur pushes off the bed, sitting up on his knees. He grabs Eames’ thighs for leverage and ramps up the pace of his thrusts. He’s just barely brushing along Eames’ prostrate, every third or forth plunge in. It’s enough to make thinking, let alone conversation, difficult, but Eames just can’t help himself.
“I didn’t say anything about them being sexual, Arthur; that’s on you. I said that I didn’t understand why one is trouser-less. It seems an odd thing to idealize.”
“It’s obvious his overall button broke, Eames. It’s … funny.”
Arthur doesn’t sound so sure about his reply. Eames is sure that Arthur can’t actually think a wardrobe malfunction on a child is humorous. Arthur is fishing for excuses and answers, which means Eames has an opening to push his agenda. Sooner or later, he will convince Arthur to box the little statues away.
“It is decidedly not funny. And I understand the mechanics of the sculpture, Arthur, what I don’t understand is why? Why do these things exist in the first place? Why do middle aged women buy them?”
“Girls buy them too.”
“And here we are, where you are neither of those things, and yet they still sit on display. In stark contrast to everything else in your apartment, I might add.”
Arthur stops completely. He glares down, not amused. “Shut up, Eames. I don’t need a reason. It’s my apartment.”
“Be that as it may, it doesn’t mean I have to enjoy them when I come over.”
“I could just not invite you over, you know. This is not a winning argument for you.” Arthur still hasn’t started moving again. He’s buried to the hilt inside Eames’ arse and is too distracted by the conversation to either pull out or continue on.
“Ah, yes, but if you don’t invite me over, then you don’t get spectacular sex, seeing as your schedule is the one that inhibits our activities.”
“The sex is far from spectacular right at the moment, Eames, which is your fault. And don’t think for a second, that I wouldn’t be able to pick someone else up if I chose to.”
Eames knows that he is treading on thin ice. It would not be in his best interests to insult Arthur right now, so he tries a compliment instead. “I don’t doubt that, Arthur, rather the opposite. I have the utmost faith that you would be able to pick up anyone you bloody please. But you would not take them here; that I know. You would never be so blasé about your address with a stranger, let alone with your open gun collection-you know, most people use a gun safe.”
“I like having access to them. They’re not loaded.” Arthur starts thrusting again, a slow pace to build back up. Eames’ breath hitches at the renewed friction.
“I’ve no problem with your gun collection, in fact I rather fancy it. We should really go shoot that AA-12 sometime. I’ve never actually fired a full-auto shotgun. But we’re getting off track, my apologies. We were talking about the dolls, Arthur, and the fact that they distract me and put me off my game.”
“They’re not dolls.” Arthur hisses and snaps his hips again.
“Sorry,” he says with as much icy sarcasm as his can muster “Figurines, collectibles, statuettes.”
“Shut the fuck up, Eames.” Arthur covers Eames’ mouth his his hand, effectively putting an end to the conversation. Arthur jerks his hips forward in quick bursts that make Eames pant into his hand, argument forgotten with the suddenly renewed bout of pleasure.
***
“I won’t do it, Arthur. We’re getting a hotel. I’m not fucking in that room anymore.” Eames crosses his arms and leans on the door frame, not venturing past the threshold of Arthur’s apartment door. He knows he’s being petulant. Arthur turns a quizzical, annoyed gaze towards him.
“Seriously, Eames? What is your problem?”
“They’re my problem. I don’t like them. They put me out. I don’t want to have sex in that room. I’ve tried, and it doesn’t work.”
Arthur’s look becomes dark, which turns something in Eames stomach, making him nervous, but he holds his position. He’s tired of their sex life being hindered by stupid, collectible statues. “You really need to get over this,” Arthur says, with a hint of venom in his tone.
They’ve been having this argument for months, every time Arthur brings Eames to his California apartment. It doesn’t help that Arthur’s moderate temper has been pushed past its breaking point by today’s spectacular cock up of a job. Eames isn’t very happy about the failure either. He’d like some good, aggressive, mind-blowing sex to cleanse his palette, but that isn’t going to happen in this apartment; he’s not willing to deal with his phobia at the moment.
“No, Arthur. I don’t. We can fuck, but not in front of those things,” he says in distaste. “Hotel or nothing. I’m too wound up for this, and I’m not going to do it.”
“Fuck you, Eames,” Arthur hisses. They’re headed for a full on blow out: screaming, fists and bloody knuckles. Eames could work off the edge with a good fight too, but he’d rather not when a better alternative could so easily be had.
“I’m trying to get to that, Arthur.”
Eames isn’t trying to be condescending, but there’s really no room for any other reply. He’s tired, he’s agitated, and he really can’t be arsed to be diplomatic at the moment. Arthur goes silent, still, coiled like a serpent ready to strike.
“You know what? No. I’m done,” he says voice dropping low, becoming threatening.
“Arthur, you’re being unreasonable.” Eames scrambles and it’s the wrong thing to say. He should know better, he knows how to work people over, twist their emotions to his advantage, but he’s never been able do that with Arthur.
“No, you’re the one being unreasonable.” Arthur shucks off his jacket angrily. He doesn’t bother to hang it up, just tosses over the arm of the couch, which is a clear indication of just how upset he is. Eames voice immediately softens. He’s really not trying to make Arthur that angry.
“I don’t understand why you’re so attached to them.”
“I don’t need to justify anything to you.” Arthur’s words are clipped, short consonants making them sound abrasive and defensive.
“Can’t we compromise on this, somehow?”
“No, Eames. We can’t.”
“Why won’t you work with me here?” Eames isn’t above pleading. This night-no, this whole day-is not going how he would like. He knows Arthur is just as stressed as he is.
“It’s none of your business, Eames. Fuck off.” The retort just sounds tired.
Eames can see the circles underneath Arthur’s eyes, the pallor of his skin. His features are gaunt, emaciated, like they always are when he loses himself in a job; he forgets to eat too often. Eames goes to wrap his arms around Arthur. He hates seeing him like this, especially when a job goes south. All that daunting work for nothing.
“Hey, hey, at least let me know why you fancy the buggers. What is it about them that you can’t let go? I really don’t get it.”
Eames pulls Arthur into a hug and presses a kiss to Arthur’s temple, petting his hair with soft strokes. He’s thankful to be able to do this and not have Arthur think he is coddling him instead of comforting him. Not long ago it would have been awkward, or completely inappropriate.
“I don’t have to explain anything to you.”
“Arthur, please,” Eames begs. Their relationship has developed farther than he could have ever hoped, but they’re often still defensive. It’s difficult for either of them to show weakness or to give in. They fight spectacularly. He thinks maybe some day they won’t. Arthur is bristling now, shutting him out, for a reason Eames can’t begin to figure out.
“Fuck off,” Arthur whispers.
“Arthur.”
Arthur doesn’t say anything, just stands tense in Eames’ arms, not accepting the embrace but not pulling away. After a few long moments, Arthur’s shoulders slump, as if every bit of strength leaves him. He sighs deeply before burying is face in Eames’ neck.
“My mother gave them to me, ok?”
Eames’ heart drops into his stomach. Arthur’s mother passed away just a year ago, right before their relationship turned serious. Eames had never seen Arthur so upset before. He had never seen him so vulnerable; the devastation so raw, so completely unhidden it had been a shock. Eames felt honored that Arthur allowed him to see instead of retreating into a protective shell, hadn’t pushed him away even though they were only casually dating at the time.
“Oh.” He can’t come up with a more intelligent reply. Nothing in his vocabulary can convey just how embarrassed he is at making Arthur upset over something so trivial.
“Can, can we not do this right now?” Arthur’s voice is so soft, tinged with sadness and trepidation.
“Bloody hell. I’m sorry, Arthur. I didn’t … ”
“I know. Ok? It’s fine. Just … can we not?” Arthur circles his arms around Eames’ waist, finally succumbing fully to the embrace. He feels so small in Eames’ arms, so fragile, though Eames knows he isn’t. Eames can’t help but want to protect him. He wishes he could take all of Arthur’s heartache away.
“Arthur, of course. I’m sorry.”
They stand for a long time, Eames rocking Arthur back and forth just slightly, breathing together. Arthur doesn’t cry, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t need this right now. Eames will give him anything, everything he has to offer. Finally, when calm has washed over them, Arthur breaks the somber mood.
“What is it about dolls?” Arthur asks like it’s a joke, like it’s the most foolish, ludicrous, laughable thing to be fussing over. Eames knows he’s right.
“I don’t know. It’s irrational.” He chuckles into Arthur’s hair. Somehow he feels better for feeling so stupid. He feels humbled, discovering his fear is less important than he thought it was. He’s surprised by how quickly his opinion of the dolls presence has changed. Eames supposes he’s thoroughly done for, and he’s happy to find that he doesn’t think that’s a bad thing.
“It has to come from something,” Arthur insists.
Eames would rather not have to explain why the silly things make him nervous. He’d rather just push it far away from his current thoughts. But Arthur opened up to him, he should do the same.
“Their eyes don’t move.”
“What?”
“Their eyes. They don’t move. They’re dead. They remind me … of death. I just don’t like them.”
Arthur stays silent. He’s clearly thinking, but it doesn’t feel like he’s judging in any way. Eames relaxes a little, just now realizing how nervous he had been to say it.
“I’m not getting rid of them,” Arthur says with finality, but his tone is light, not meant to upset.
“It’s fine, Arthur. I’m sorry, I’ve been an arse.”
“I can probably put them in storage though.”
“No, don’t,” Eames says vehemently. The last thing he wants to do is sully any of Arthur’s memories with his ridiculous issues. “I’ll get over it. It’s fine. I’m sorry, really. I know how much she meant to you.”
“Yeah. But I don’t need the figurines to remember her by.”
“Hey, hey.” Eames pulls back to take Arthur’s face in his hands. He looks into Arthur’s eyes and speaks with honesty and conviction. “They’re important to you, yeah? So you need them.”
They don’t say anything after that. They’re both exhausted, too exhausted for anything. Instead of having sex, they fall into bed and press up against each other, arms and legs tangled loosely. They allow the simple sensation their skin touching comfort them, calm them from the stress of the day and of their fight.
Eames doesn’t bring up the figurines again. He wouldn’t, even though they still bother him. After a few months they disappear. All but one that is, but it no longer sits in front of the gun collection. It’s tucked away in a corner, where Eames can’t see it from the bed. He thinks that this probably means Arthur loves him, since he is willing to give up something important to him to make Eames more comfortable. Eames would have dealt with fear forever if he had to, just to make Arthur happy. He thinks that this means he loves Arthur too.
Total word count: 3,102
Pairing(s) /Character(s): Arthur/Eames
Warnings: Mention of non-canon character death.
Summary: Arthur collects Precious Moments figurines. He places them neatly in front of his gun collection.
Beta(s): The lovely sneaqui & immoral_crow
Authors Note:The title is from the song “Porn, Kitsch & Firearms", on the Skold vs. KMFDM album though it isn’t based on the song necessarily. It is really inspired by my insane brain, and my mother’s former collection of Precious Moments figurines. If any of you knew my mother, you would think it absurd that she ever, in her life, possessed these creepy little statues. In my mind, she’s much like Arthur: much too bad-ass for cutesy ceramics.
No, I don’t know if the statue I describe actually exists, but I know that this one does. And I could swear I’ve seen one mimicking the classic Coppertone suntan lotion ad with the the dog pulling off the kid’s bottoms.
____
“They’re looking at me.”
Eames knows he’s whining, being completely irrational about this, but he doesn’t care. He’s uncomfortable, and that’s absolutely unacceptable when Arthur is pressing his warm, half-naked body to his front and forcing his tongue inside his mouth. He would love to be able to concentrate solely on Arthur, but that, at the moment, is impossible.
“Don’t be an asshole, Eames,” Arthur grimaces, his deft fingers making quick work undoing Eames’ shirt buttons. He doesn’t stop kissing, but Eames presses on, getting his words out between gasps for air.
“It’s bad enough that we fuck in front of your wall of guns. If people could see us they would think we’re insane. But the dolls? That’s just fucking creepy, Arthur.”
Eames does not like dolls. He never has. The eyes are what bother him. They’re unmoving, and yet they follow him wherever he goes, unblinking. Whenever his forges are under construction, the eyes are glassy like a doll’s. He perfects them, until he’s not staring back at himself in the mirror with dead eyes. He can’t let it go until that part of the transformation is complete. It’s not obsessive. It’s not.
“They’re not dolls,” Arthur replies, his tongue licking a stripe up Eames’ now exposed chest.
“Whatever. You have an arsenal of weaponry, most of which is illegal, with porcelain figurines propped in front of it. You realize if anyone, other than myself, saw this, they would think you are a bloody serial killer?”
Eames turns his gaze away from the soulless, teardrop eyes. They’re completely out of proportion, meant to make the statues look innocent and cute; but instead, it just makes them look like terrifying, little alien babies. Or what he supposes aliens look like, since that’s what movies would lead him to believe. Eames also does not like aliens. Maybe. He’s never encountered one, and he hopes he doesn’t ever have to.
“People already think I’m a serial killer,” Arthur replies unbothered, in the same voice he uses every time Eames compares him to some form of murderous creature. He goes for Eames’ belt next, pulling the leather through its metal buckle with practiced ease.
“I’m not talking about others thinking you kill people, but have a good reason to, Arthur. I’m talking about people thinking you make lamps out of vertebrae and wear human skins as prom dresses.”
Arthur kneels in front of him, mouthing at his erection through his briefs. Eames is momentarily distracted from his tirade by how beautiful Arthur looks with his eyes closed, mouth parted, and tongue flicking out across the dark cotton barrier. He drags his fingers lightly through Arthur’s hair.
“I would never wear a prom dress,” Arthur murmurs. The heat of his breath makes Eames gasp; his grip tightens reflexively in Arthur’s hair. Arthur’s tone is matter of fact, as if what Eames had just suggested was not absurd in the slightest. As if Arthur had contemplated the logistics of turning human hides into clothing before, but had written it off as a waste of time.
“Now you are being purposefully obtuse,” Eames replies when he regains the ability to think. Arthur weighing the fashionable nature of skin dresses is not the point. The point is that the dolls are creepy, and Eames is just barely tolerating them in favor of Arthur’s mouth on his cock.
“They were a gift.” The statement is delivered with an air of finality that means Arthur is done talking about this, and Eames should shut up if he knows what’s good for him. He purposefully ignores that signal, which is unfortunate because Arthur is just wrapping his beautiful lips around the head of his cock in a very delightful manner. He pushes on.
“That doesn’t mean you have to put them on display. I’m sure there is a cozy little box that they can live in somewhere.”
“You are such an asshole,” Arthur sighs. He pulls away, sitting back on his heels. Eames’ hips jerk forward at the loss of contact, searching for the warmth of Arthur’s mouth again. He should kick himself for pressing the issue.
“But you love me?” Eames tries. Arthur is clearly upset, and Eames hopes the tacky joke will put him at ease.
“I’m not putting them away,” Arthur says flatly.
“Can we at least turn them around?”
Fuck this phobia, he thinks, for ruining what he knows would have been a spectacular blow job. Arthur gives an exasperated huff before standing. Eames swallows nervously. He may have just pissed Arthur off enough that he’s going to be sleeping alone for a week. Arthur grabs him by the wrist and drags him to the living room, away from the creepy little ceramic creations. He shoves Eames onto his knees in front of the suede couch.
“I’ll give you something else to focus on then,” Arthur says as he undoes his own pants. It’s better, but Eames knows that the figurines are still in the bedroom, waiting.
***
“They’re disturbing, darling. Statues of children always are. And why are that one’s trousers down? What kind of message is that?”
Eames had been so good, had managed to push the frightening little ceramic children to the back of his mind until now. His timing is truly terrible. Arthur is leaning over him, hair loose and curling in his face, sweat beading deliciously along his pale skin and dripping down to meet at their joined hips. He’s rocking into him at a nice steady pace that has Eames’ nerves thrumming in pleasure. Eames wants nothing more than to lose himself in the moment, to truly enjoy the feel of Arthur’s cock stretching him out, but every time he opens his eyes, he can see them in his peripheral vision.
“I can’t believe you are bringing this up right now,” Arthur pants, thrusting his hips forward. His pace doesn’t break, but the snap of his hips becomes sharper, like a punishment.
“You have a statue of a half naked boy in your room. What am I to think?”
“I can’t believe you can find a way to make Precious Moments figurines dirty.”
Arthur pushes off the bed, sitting up on his knees. He grabs Eames’ thighs for leverage and ramps up the pace of his thrusts. He’s just barely brushing along Eames’ prostrate, every third or forth plunge in. It’s enough to make thinking, let alone conversation, difficult, but Eames just can’t help himself.
“I didn’t say anything about them being sexual, Arthur; that’s on you. I said that I didn’t understand why one is trouser-less. It seems an odd thing to idealize.”
“It’s obvious his overall button broke, Eames. It’s … funny.”
Arthur doesn’t sound so sure about his reply. Eames is sure that Arthur can’t actually think a wardrobe malfunction on a child is humorous. Arthur is fishing for excuses and answers, which means Eames has an opening to push his agenda. Sooner or later, he will convince Arthur to box the little statues away.
“It is decidedly not funny. And I understand the mechanics of the sculpture, Arthur, what I don’t understand is why? Why do these things exist in the first place? Why do middle aged women buy them?”
“Girls buy them too.”
“And here we are, where you are neither of those things, and yet they still sit on display. In stark contrast to everything else in your apartment, I might add.”
Arthur stops completely. He glares down, not amused. “Shut up, Eames. I don’t need a reason. It’s my apartment.”
“Be that as it may, it doesn’t mean I have to enjoy them when I come over.”
“I could just not invite you over, you know. This is not a winning argument for you.” Arthur still hasn’t started moving again. He’s buried to the hilt inside Eames’ arse and is too distracted by the conversation to either pull out or continue on.
“Ah, yes, but if you don’t invite me over, then you don’t get spectacular sex, seeing as your schedule is the one that inhibits our activities.”
“The sex is far from spectacular right at the moment, Eames, which is your fault. And don’t think for a second, that I wouldn’t be able to pick someone else up if I chose to.”
Eames knows that he is treading on thin ice. It would not be in his best interests to insult Arthur right now, so he tries a compliment instead. “I don’t doubt that, Arthur, rather the opposite. I have the utmost faith that you would be able to pick up anyone you bloody please. But you would not take them here; that I know. You would never be so blasé about your address with a stranger, let alone with your open gun collection-you know, most people use a gun safe.”
“I like having access to them. They’re not loaded.” Arthur starts thrusting again, a slow pace to build back up. Eames’ breath hitches at the renewed friction.
“I’ve no problem with your gun collection, in fact I rather fancy it. We should really go shoot that AA-12 sometime. I’ve never actually fired a full-auto shotgun. But we’re getting off track, my apologies. We were talking about the dolls, Arthur, and the fact that they distract me and put me off my game.”
“They’re not dolls.” Arthur hisses and snaps his hips again.
“Sorry,” he says with as much icy sarcasm as his can muster “Figurines, collectibles, statuettes.”
“Shut the fuck up, Eames.” Arthur covers Eames’ mouth his his hand, effectively putting an end to the conversation. Arthur jerks his hips forward in quick bursts that make Eames pant into his hand, argument forgotten with the suddenly renewed bout of pleasure.
***
“I won’t do it, Arthur. We’re getting a hotel. I’m not fucking in that room anymore.” Eames crosses his arms and leans on the door frame, not venturing past the threshold of Arthur’s apartment door. He knows he’s being petulant. Arthur turns a quizzical, annoyed gaze towards him.
“Seriously, Eames? What is your problem?”
“They’re my problem. I don’t like them. They put me out. I don’t want to have sex in that room. I’ve tried, and it doesn’t work.”
Arthur’s look becomes dark, which turns something in Eames stomach, making him nervous, but he holds his position. He’s tired of their sex life being hindered by stupid, collectible statues. “You really need to get over this,” Arthur says, with a hint of venom in his tone.
They’ve been having this argument for months, every time Arthur brings Eames to his California apartment. It doesn’t help that Arthur’s moderate temper has been pushed past its breaking point by today’s spectacular cock up of a job. Eames isn’t very happy about the failure either. He’d like some good, aggressive, mind-blowing sex to cleanse his palette, but that isn’t going to happen in this apartment; he’s not willing to deal with his phobia at the moment.
“No, Arthur. I don’t. We can fuck, but not in front of those things,” he says in distaste. “Hotel or nothing. I’m too wound up for this, and I’m not going to do it.”
“Fuck you, Eames,” Arthur hisses. They’re headed for a full on blow out: screaming, fists and bloody knuckles. Eames could work off the edge with a good fight too, but he’d rather not when a better alternative could so easily be had.
“I’m trying to get to that, Arthur.”
Eames isn’t trying to be condescending, but there’s really no room for any other reply. He’s tired, he’s agitated, and he really can’t be arsed to be diplomatic at the moment. Arthur goes silent, still, coiled like a serpent ready to strike.
“You know what? No. I’m done,” he says voice dropping low, becoming threatening.
“Arthur, you’re being unreasonable.” Eames scrambles and it’s the wrong thing to say. He should know better, he knows how to work people over, twist their emotions to his advantage, but he’s never been able do that with Arthur.
“No, you’re the one being unreasonable.” Arthur shucks off his jacket angrily. He doesn’t bother to hang it up, just tosses over the arm of the couch, which is a clear indication of just how upset he is. Eames voice immediately softens. He’s really not trying to make Arthur that angry.
“I don’t understand why you’re so attached to them.”
“I don’t need to justify anything to you.” Arthur’s words are clipped, short consonants making them sound abrasive and defensive.
“Can’t we compromise on this, somehow?”
“No, Eames. We can’t.”
“Why won’t you work with me here?” Eames isn’t above pleading. This night-no, this whole day-is not going how he would like. He knows Arthur is just as stressed as he is.
“It’s none of your business, Eames. Fuck off.” The retort just sounds tired.
Eames can see the circles underneath Arthur’s eyes, the pallor of his skin. His features are gaunt, emaciated, like they always are when he loses himself in a job; he forgets to eat too often. Eames goes to wrap his arms around Arthur. He hates seeing him like this, especially when a job goes south. All that daunting work for nothing.
“Hey, hey, at least let me know why you fancy the buggers. What is it about them that you can’t let go? I really don’t get it.”
Eames pulls Arthur into a hug and presses a kiss to Arthur’s temple, petting his hair with soft strokes. He’s thankful to be able to do this and not have Arthur think he is coddling him instead of comforting him. Not long ago it would have been awkward, or completely inappropriate.
“I don’t have to explain anything to you.”
“Arthur, please,” Eames begs. Their relationship has developed farther than he could have ever hoped, but they’re often still defensive. It’s difficult for either of them to show weakness or to give in. They fight spectacularly. He thinks maybe some day they won’t. Arthur is bristling now, shutting him out, for a reason Eames can’t begin to figure out.
“Fuck off,” Arthur whispers.
“Arthur.”
Arthur doesn’t say anything, just stands tense in Eames’ arms, not accepting the embrace but not pulling away. After a few long moments, Arthur’s shoulders slump, as if every bit of strength leaves him. He sighs deeply before burying is face in Eames’ neck.
“My mother gave them to me, ok?”
Eames’ heart drops into his stomach. Arthur’s mother passed away just a year ago, right before their relationship turned serious. Eames had never seen Arthur so upset before. He had never seen him so vulnerable; the devastation so raw, so completely unhidden it had been a shock. Eames felt honored that Arthur allowed him to see instead of retreating into a protective shell, hadn’t pushed him away even though they were only casually dating at the time.
“Oh.” He can’t come up with a more intelligent reply. Nothing in his vocabulary can convey just how embarrassed he is at making Arthur upset over something so trivial.
“Can, can we not do this right now?” Arthur’s voice is so soft, tinged with sadness and trepidation.
“Bloody hell. I’m sorry, Arthur. I didn’t … ”
“I know. Ok? It’s fine. Just … can we not?” Arthur circles his arms around Eames’ waist, finally succumbing fully to the embrace. He feels so small in Eames’ arms, so fragile, though Eames knows he isn’t. Eames can’t help but want to protect him. He wishes he could take all of Arthur’s heartache away.
“Arthur, of course. I’m sorry.”
They stand for a long time, Eames rocking Arthur back and forth just slightly, breathing together. Arthur doesn’t cry, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t need this right now. Eames will give him anything, everything he has to offer. Finally, when calm has washed over them, Arthur breaks the somber mood.
“What is it about dolls?” Arthur asks like it’s a joke, like it’s the most foolish, ludicrous, laughable thing to be fussing over. Eames knows he’s right.
“I don’t know. It’s irrational.” He chuckles into Arthur’s hair. Somehow he feels better for feeling so stupid. He feels humbled, discovering his fear is less important than he thought it was. He’s surprised by how quickly his opinion of the dolls presence has changed. Eames supposes he’s thoroughly done for, and he’s happy to find that he doesn’t think that’s a bad thing.
“It has to come from something,” Arthur insists.
Eames would rather not have to explain why the silly things make him nervous. He’d rather just push it far away from his current thoughts. But Arthur opened up to him, he should do the same.
“Their eyes don’t move.”
“What?”
“Their eyes. They don’t move. They’re dead. They remind me … of death. I just don’t like them.”
Arthur stays silent. He’s clearly thinking, but it doesn’t feel like he’s judging in any way. Eames relaxes a little, just now realizing how nervous he had been to say it.
“I’m not getting rid of them,” Arthur says with finality, but his tone is light, not meant to upset.
“It’s fine, Arthur. I’m sorry, I’ve been an arse.”
“I can probably put them in storage though.”
“No, don’t,” Eames says vehemently. The last thing he wants to do is sully any of Arthur’s memories with his ridiculous issues. “I’ll get over it. It’s fine. I’m sorry, really. I know how much she meant to you.”
“Yeah. But I don’t need the figurines to remember her by.”
“Hey, hey.” Eames pulls back to take Arthur’s face in his hands. He looks into Arthur’s eyes and speaks with honesty and conviction. “They’re important to you, yeah? So you need them.”
They don’t say anything after that. They’re both exhausted, too exhausted for anything. Instead of having sex, they fall into bed and press up against each other, arms and legs tangled loosely. They allow the simple sensation their skin touching comfort them, calm them from the stress of the day and of their fight.
Eames doesn’t bring up the figurines again. He wouldn’t, even though they still bother him. After a few months they disappear. All but one that is, but it no longer sits in front of the gun collection. It’s tucked away in a corner, where Eames can’t see it from the bed. He thinks that this probably means Arthur loves him, since he is willing to give up something important to him to make Eames more comfortable. Eames would have dealt with fear forever if he had to, just to make Arthur happy. He thinks that this means he loves Arthur too.