I'd Forget to Smile (Then I Met You) 4/5
Gift for: knowmydark
Author: mad_musing
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s): Sex and violence. Canon character death. Capital punishment.
Summary: In the age of bootleggers and speakeasies, this is the story of a gangster and the detective assigned to break him. What ends up broken is entirely different.
Author Notes: Inspired by late-night forays into 1930s gangster movies and that film-noir-esque photo of JGL in a fedora and suit (incidentally, anyone know where that’s from?). Also, a huge thank you to writteninhaste for beta-ing this massive thing and catching all those mistakes!
Part Three
Later, Arthur watches Eames dance with Ariadne. He moves with surprising ease on the dance floor, keeping up with her youthful enthusiasm, and they dance the Charleston, all energy and excitement. He watches Eames’ hands on her waist and remembers how they felt on his hips. Eames laughs breathlessly, his plush lips stretched wide, and Arthur pictures them wrapped around his cock. He’s half-hard already and angry, angry that he’s here when he doesn’t want to be, angry that Eames is dancing with Ariadne when he should be with Arthur.
A roar of laughter and applause rises up when Eames lifts Ariadne up in a complicated move and brings her back down, their bodies pressed tight against each other. Arthur flushes-with anger or arousal, he can’t really tell-and weaves his way through the crowd and catches Eames’ eye, jerks his head toward the stage and moves in that direction, certain that Eames understands.
He smirks in triumph when strong hands seize him around the hips as soon as they’re behind the curtain, when a strong body presses against his back.
“I saw you watching us,” Eames growls into the shell of his ear. “Like what you saw?”
“No, I can’t say I did,” he answers, as disdainfully as he can. Eames makes a frustrated noise and bites down on Arthur’s neck, then licks it-and, just like that, Arthur’s straining against his trousers.
“Downstairs,” Eames pants. “Now.” They nearly fall down the stairs in their haste and vaguely, in the back of his head, Arthur cringes at his loss of control. But Eames is so eager and he’s so riled up that he can’t help it.
They shed their trousers hurriedly, elbows bumping into each other and the walls and shelves in the tiny broom closet that barely fits. Things clatter to the floor and they’re making entirely too much noise but hopefully the music upstairs is loud enough to cover it up because Arthur can’t quite bring himself to care when Eames wraps his hand around Arthur’s cock and presses a thumb into the slit. He’d be embarrassed about the noise that leaves his lips, except that Eames’ panting becomes louder. He heaves himself up and moves his hand between his legs but Eames stops him.
“Let me, Arthur,” he whispers, nearly pleads. Before Arthur can protest, Eames has slicked his hand and is pressing a finger-a calloused, broad finger-inside him and it feels so good. Eames adds another finger, pushes in deeper and twists them, brushes just so against Arthur’s prostate, which makes him shudder and moan. Arthur watches blearily as Eames slicks himself.
“C’mere, you.” Eames’ voice is wrecked, husky and deep with lust, and he hoists Arthur’s legs up and pushes inside him.
It’s messy and rough and entirely too desperate. Eames thrusts almost brutally, his hands gripping Arthur’s hips hard enough to bruise and he growls expletives all the while. One of Arthur’s hands claws at Eames’ shoulder, while the other is tangled in Eames’ hair, and he’s making so much noise.
When Eames thrusts into his prostate-once, twice-Arthur has to bite down on his sleeve to keep from shouting as he comes. Eames bites down on Arthur’s shoulder, hard enough to hurt, when he comes soon after.
Upstairs, Ariadne looks around for her dance partner. And can’t find him.
-
Eames really doesn’t know what he’s doing, fucking Arthur like he is. It’s unpleasant, to say the least, caught between his feelings of right and wrong and his undeniable and insatiable appetite for the man. For watching his face, for feeling his body, for knowing that he’s at Eames’ mercy during their sexual encounters.
He’s known what it is to feel such desire and to act upon it but he also knows that there is no good, at all, that could come from it. He’d had to move from London to Chicago to escape trouble-legal and otherwise-after being caught with another man. Eames is a man who knows what he wants and gets it, fuck the consequences.
With Arthur, though, it’s different. He’s never experienced an all-consuming need for someone else before. His previous flings were always purely hedonistic, sexual escapades that served the sole purpose of indulging in his vices. But Arthur-he’d be damned if he said he didn’t want to be the one Arthur leaned on, the one Arthur trusted. He wanted to make Arthur smile and laugh because he knew the stone-faced man was capable of it; he’d seen humor lurking in Arthur’s serious brown eyes.
The stakes are so much higher, though. He’s got Browning informed of all the Cobb gang’s moves, sneaking off in the middle of the night to bring him the latest details of the drop. Yusuf meets him at his apartment, sometimes, when Eames is sure nobody’s watching, and they listen to the radio and talk. Eames talks about the things he’s seen working with Arthur. He talks about the beating he witnessed when the man in charge of printing their labels smudges the ink on a batch and ruined them, about how Arthur had been merciless and cruel, how the beaten man had pleaded and begged through broken teeth and split lips. He talks about how Arthur drops threats like he breaths, simply and matter of fact. He tells Yusuf how much he hates Arthur and doesn’t say anything about how much he doesn’t hate Arthur-but Yusuf seems to know that anyway.
“Be careful, Eames,” he always warns when he leaves. He claps Eames on the shoulder and looks deep into his eyes. “Be careful.” Somehow, Eames knows his friend means something deeper than simply watching his back.
“Always am, Yusuf, you know that,” he always answers, grinning cheekily.
But he’s being careless with Arthur. Careless about fucking him, about his feelings for him, as if he’s some damn woman who can’t keep his heart in check. He can’t really, truly bring himself to do something about it, though. He could walk away from Arthur, could ignore the heated looks that always signal a romp in the broom closet, which is the only place that offers a substantial amount of privacy.
He doesn’t want to, though, because as much as he hates Arthur, he likes him in equal measure. He is complex and multi-faceted, flashing sides of him that are different from his stern and sometimes cruel attitude.
“Turn that up,” Arthur says suddenly one frigid morning, motioning to the radio Eames had brought in a few days previously. The clear, bright tones of Louis Armstrong’s trumpet and Bessie Smith’s voice float from the radio and Eames is surprised to hear Arthur humming along, his baritone melding perfectly with Smith’s dulcet voice.
“Well, well, well, I didn’t know you liked jazz,” he remarks, making Arthur jump. He laughs because it’s so dissimilar to who he thinks Arthur is.
“What’s so funny?” Arthur asks, narrowing his eyes.
“Darling, for someone so rigid to like music so fluid, it’s quite the paradox,” Eames says through his chuckles. “So that stick up your arse can be removed after all.”
“You of all people should know quite well that it can, Mr. Eames,” Arthur replies with a wicked smirk that shows all his teeth.
They end up fucking to the rest of the song, and it’s frantic, as it always is. This time, this time they forget that anyone could walk in on them-or, perhaps, they don’t care-and it heightens the sex, that thrill of tension. It’s the first time Eames takes Arthur from behind, bending him over a desk and pushing into him so hard the table rattles. He holds Arthur’s hips to give himself leverage, and Arthur’s fingers grip the desk so hard his knuckles turn white.
Eames focuses on those slim, slender hands, the way they curl around the edge of the desk, the way they shift when Arthur takes the strength of Eames’ movements. He focuses on these to distract him from the wanton noises Arthur makes, muffled in his mouth because he’s biting his lip, from the way Arthur clenches around him, invites him all the way in, the way Arthur snaps his hips back to meet Eames’ forward thrusts.
They come together and that’s another first. Arthur drops his head as they ride their orgasms together. Eames pulls out of him, takes his clean handkerchief from his pocket and cleans Arthur.
“Hey.” Arthur says, his tone languid. Eames looks up from where he’s kneeling on the floor, wiping the remains of Arthur’s come from the floor and desk. Arthur’s smiling beatifically at him, revealing two dimples that frame his mouth, like parentheses that Eames never wants to close.
“Yes?”
Arthur doesn’t say anything else, just regards Eames with that smile and reaches down, presses the tips of his fingers questioningly against Eames’ cheek. Eames freezes at the touch, not wanting to startle him and not trusting himself to do something stupid like kiss him. He freezes and lets Arthur touch his face.
And it’s so strange because he sees the awareness coming back to Arthur, the awareness that their unspoken boundaries-Arthur’s unspoken rules-are slowly disappearing. Arthur snatches his hand away and the smile is replaced with a scowl that holds no heat, no fierceness. It’s an expression of such strange bewilderment that Eames is left breathless, the wind knocked completely out of him, because it’s the first time he’s ever seen Arthur look anything other than the picture of pure confidence.
-
That night, Cobb rings for Arthur again. Eames knows immediately that something’s wrong. Arthur’s voice on the phone is sharp, nearly hysterical, and he thinks that he’s never heard the man like that before. He doesn’t listen to what they say but he thinks he knows.
“Fuck!” Arthur screams, punctuated by a bang that suggests he’s thrown the phone back on its cradle. “Fuck.”
His expression when he appears back in the basement is dark enough that Eames doesn’t say anything to him, just hands him his coat. Arthur takes it mechanically and leaves. Eames follows him, not to Cobb’s place but a building nearby, the top floor of a swanky building. He realizes with a start that he’s followed Arthur to his home and enters the apartment behind Arthur, who stands in the middle of the room with his head down and his shoulders shaking.
He doesn’t say anything but he locks the door behind him and walks toward Arthur slowly, hands up like he’s approaching an animal. He reaches out, touches Arthur and his hand is violently shrugged off.
“Don’t touch me,” Arthur snarls. “Don’t fucking touch me, Eames.” His voice is thick and tears splash down his face. “Don’t touch-.” A sob breaks through the angry words and his chest heaves as his breath hitches. “Don’t…”
“Oh, Arthur,” Eames says, knowing for sure now what Cobb must have told him. “Oh, darling.”
Arthur doesn’t protest his use of the pet name, just throws him a scowl that morphs into a sob and bites his lip so hard he draws blood. His body is fighting to cry but he’s trying to stop it, his neck muscles straining from the force of holding back his sobs. It’s painful to watch because, every few minutes, a small noise breaks free and Arthur nearly chokes trying to hold it all in.
“It’s okay to cry. Mal was-very special. It’s only right to mourn her.”
“No!” Arthur shouts, eyes wild. “No! She killed herself and I fucking hate her for it!” He can barely speak because he’s crying so hard and he’s still trying to tamp down on his reaction, and he’s trembling like a leaf from the effort that he looks about to burst.
“What about the kids? Cobb’s gone crazy; they can’t lose him too!”
“Arthur,” Eames says, touching him again. Arthur punches him in the face, sends him reeling.
“I said don’t touch me!” Arthur all but wails, still managing to sound dangerous even as his grief makes him look like a child. Eames nods.
“Okay, okay, I won’t touch you. I’m sorry.” So he takes a seat and waits. He waits until Arthur has calmed sufficiently and watches him carefully to make sure he won’t suffocate on his own sobs.
When Arthur’s eyes flutter closed and he throws himself onto the couch, Eames moves to sit beside him. Exhausted and rubbed emotionally raw, Arthur allows his head to drop onto Eames’ shoulder and they stay like that the rest of the night.
-
Arthur’s heart breaks. There’s Cobb’s voice over the phone, tinny and distant, but the pain in it is so evident that Arthur’s heart just about shatters. He was right. Mal was going to end Cobb, after all. Not betray him but leave him.
His heart breaks but Eames is there, silent and solid as Arthur reacts to the emotions welling up in him. Eames sits by him all night, a warm presence that keeps Arthur grounded, keeps him in reality, keeps him together. When the grey light of dawn begins to seep through the window, Arthur rubs his dry eyes, stirs for the first time in hours.
“Thank you,” he says, standing, unable to meet Eames’ eyes because he doesn’t want to see his pity. Eames stands suddenly and moves in front of him. He raises Arthur’s chin with his fingers and looks at him. Eames’ eyes burn with tender compassion and understanding and empathy. Eames looks entirely as grief-stricken as Arthur feels, as if he’s sharing in his pain, and there isn’t anything pitying about his expression or his attitude.
Every muscle in Arthur’s body stills as he stares into Eames’ eyes. Eames’ brow furrows slightly and he tilts his head, as if contemplating something. Then, he leans forward and breaches the short distance between them. His movement is hesitant and questioning, giving Arthur time to back away, to punch him, to tell him to stop. But Arthur doesn’t and Eames presses his lips to Arthur’s.
In that moment, Arthur thinks he understands what it means to be intimate with someone. The kiss is chaste and sweet but it fills Arthur with reassurance and comfort. It’s the most intimate they’ve ever been with each other but Arthur has rules.
He has rules and they’re being broken, as Eames leans into him and kisses his lips, one hand cupping Arthur’s face and the other resting gently on his waist. His rules are being broken and he can’t bring himself to care or even to remember why he clung so desperately to them in the first place. Not with Eames’ lips on his and Eames’ smell surrounding him as the morning light fills the room.
-
The funeral is private and small but extravagant. Arthur takes care of it, finding an elaborate coffin, ordering the headstone, organizes the chapel and the priest while he works out the distribution of Saito’s booze. He forgets to order flowers but that’s okay because everyone who knew Mal-from the nightclub or Cobb’s gang-brings a bouquet to the wake. The small room is full to bursting, and the combined scent of flowers and perfume and grief is staggering.
After Mal is buried and they leave Cobb to stand over her grave, a grief-bent sentinel who waters the dirt with his tears, Eames finds himself back in Arthur’s apartment. Since the day Mal died, it’s been as if all Arthur’s rules have fallen away. He’s allowed to touch Arthur and allowed to kiss him. Increasingly, too, Arthur reaches for him, touches him tentatively, searchingly.
They sit on the couch, their thighs pressed together, their shoulders rubbing. Arthur is exhausted, sorrow weighing him down as he tries to take care of Cobb’s gang. Business, apparently, doesn’t stop when tragedy strikes.
“You should sleep.”
“I can’t. Franco’s wants another case and I gotta arrange it with the boys to deliver it, get the receipts for it…”
“Shh.” Eames puts a finger on Arthur’s lips because he knows Arthur could have broken his wrist for touching him ages ago but hasn’t yet. Because he can’t take the high, almost-hysterical tone Arthur’s voice gets when he lists what he needs to do. Because Arthur is not okay.
“Stop coddling me, Eames,” Arthur snaps irritably, jerking his head away. But Eames won’t stop because there are times when anyone would need something and this is one of them.
“I won’t. If you know what’s good for you, Arthur-darling-you’re going to shut up and let me.”
“Don’t call me…”
“Darling,” Eames says and captures Arthur’s lips with his own. Arthur makes a muffled noise of protest and pushes against Eames’ chest then sighs and relaxes, letting the tension bleed from his body.
“Here.” Eames pours Arthur a glass, filled halfway with scotch he’d snuck in a flask.
“I don’t drink.” Arthur makes a face and pushes it away. Eames catches the weight of it, hears the history behind those three simple words and he wonders at it. The glass ends up on a side table, forgotten.
“You need to sleep,” Eames says again, rubbing his thumbs across the dark circles under Arthur’s eyes. “You’re bloody exhausted.”
“’M not,” he protests. “Just…”
“Exhausted.” Eames smirks mischievously and suddenly hoists Arthur into his arms and over his shoulder. He’s expecting a swift kick to the solar plexus-Arthur’s foot is in the prime position for that-or a blow to the head but Arthur just yells and squirms and doesn’t lash out.
“What the hell?” Arthur yowls when Eames deposits him onto the bed, scrambling to sit up. “What the-oof!” His angry shouting is cut off when Eames flops onto the bed with him, laughing and pulling him down.
“Relax, Arthur. Really.” He reaches down and removes Arthur’s shoes and socks-almost receives two kicks to the face-then crawls up his body and straddles his waist, unbuttoning Arthur’s somber black waistcoat, unbuttoning his crisp white shirt. He lets the clothing drop to the floor and just looks at Arthur, who has gone still and silent.
“Relax,” Eames says, and the fondness in his voice is too pronounced. He places a hand on Arthur’s chest and feels his heart, skittering wildly, and smiles, too fond too fond too fond.
Pushing it away, he rolls Arthur onto his stomach and stares, unabashed. Sinewy muscles roll under his soft alabaster skin, power and grace. He puts his hand on Arthur’s shoulders and they’re in knots so he sets to working out each and every one. Arthur hums in satisfaction, a low rumble that starts deep in his belly, and lets him.
Eames works his way down Arthur’s back, down the length of his spine to the place where it dips and joins with the curve of his arse. By now, Arthur is nothing more than a flesh-colored puddle spread across his bed.
“I’ll be going now,” Eames says and slides off the bed. He leans down to press a kiss to Arthur’s forehead-really, when will he stop?-but he feels a hand hold his wrist.
“Stay,” Arthur mumbles, eyes half-lidded, “if you want.”
Eames’ mouth goes dry at the invitation but he lets himself crawl into the bed, behind Arthur. There’s a careful distance between them, neither of them is touching the other, and the room is filled with the silence of expectation.
“Eames,” Arthur says, though it’s really just a breath, and reaches behind him, fingers searching. Their fingers entwine and Eames’ arm drapes loosely over his waist, and Eames is in such major trouble he can’t fathom it.
It hits him like a bullet, the realization, as he watches Arthur. He could fall in love with this man, a man whose eyes look at the world with an alluring combination of curiosity and condescension, who looks like he has everything and nothing figured out all at once. This man who is dark and elegant, cruel but gentle. He is the best and worst kind of man, beautiful but dangerous. Eames could give him his heart and he could hand it back to him crushed into a thousand glittering pieces.
But as Arthur drops into sleep beside him and Eames sees the way his dark lashes curl against his cheeks, feels the way his own heart swells with affection, he wonders if he already hasn’t.
Part Five
Author: mad_musing
Rating: NC-17
Warning(s): Sex and violence. Canon character death. Capital punishment.
Summary: In the age of bootleggers and speakeasies, this is the story of a gangster and the detective assigned to break him. What ends up broken is entirely different.
Author Notes: Inspired by late-night forays into 1930s gangster movies and that film-noir-esque photo of JGL in a fedora and suit (incidentally, anyone know where that’s from?). Also, a huge thank you to writteninhaste for beta-ing this massive thing and catching all those mistakes!
Part Three
Later, Arthur watches Eames dance with Ariadne. He moves with surprising ease on the dance floor, keeping up with her youthful enthusiasm, and they dance the Charleston, all energy and excitement. He watches Eames’ hands on her waist and remembers how they felt on his hips. Eames laughs breathlessly, his plush lips stretched wide, and Arthur pictures them wrapped around his cock. He’s half-hard already and angry, angry that he’s here when he doesn’t want to be, angry that Eames is dancing with Ariadne when he should be with Arthur.
A roar of laughter and applause rises up when Eames lifts Ariadne up in a complicated move and brings her back down, their bodies pressed tight against each other. Arthur flushes-with anger or arousal, he can’t really tell-and weaves his way through the crowd and catches Eames’ eye, jerks his head toward the stage and moves in that direction, certain that Eames understands.
He smirks in triumph when strong hands seize him around the hips as soon as they’re behind the curtain, when a strong body presses against his back.
“I saw you watching us,” Eames growls into the shell of his ear. “Like what you saw?”
“No, I can’t say I did,” he answers, as disdainfully as he can. Eames makes a frustrated noise and bites down on Arthur’s neck, then licks it-and, just like that, Arthur’s straining against his trousers.
“Downstairs,” Eames pants. “Now.” They nearly fall down the stairs in their haste and vaguely, in the back of his head, Arthur cringes at his loss of control. But Eames is so eager and he’s so riled up that he can’t help it.
They shed their trousers hurriedly, elbows bumping into each other and the walls and shelves in the tiny broom closet that barely fits. Things clatter to the floor and they’re making entirely too much noise but hopefully the music upstairs is loud enough to cover it up because Arthur can’t quite bring himself to care when Eames wraps his hand around Arthur’s cock and presses a thumb into the slit. He’d be embarrassed about the noise that leaves his lips, except that Eames’ panting becomes louder. He heaves himself up and moves his hand between his legs but Eames stops him.
“Let me, Arthur,” he whispers, nearly pleads. Before Arthur can protest, Eames has slicked his hand and is pressing a finger-a calloused, broad finger-inside him and it feels so good. Eames adds another finger, pushes in deeper and twists them, brushes just so against Arthur’s prostate, which makes him shudder and moan. Arthur watches blearily as Eames slicks himself.
“C’mere, you.” Eames’ voice is wrecked, husky and deep with lust, and he hoists Arthur’s legs up and pushes inside him.
It’s messy and rough and entirely too desperate. Eames thrusts almost brutally, his hands gripping Arthur’s hips hard enough to bruise and he growls expletives all the while. One of Arthur’s hands claws at Eames’ shoulder, while the other is tangled in Eames’ hair, and he’s making so much noise.
When Eames thrusts into his prostate-once, twice-Arthur has to bite down on his sleeve to keep from shouting as he comes. Eames bites down on Arthur’s shoulder, hard enough to hurt, when he comes soon after.
Upstairs, Ariadne looks around for her dance partner. And can’t find him.
-
Eames really doesn’t know what he’s doing, fucking Arthur like he is. It’s unpleasant, to say the least, caught between his feelings of right and wrong and his undeniable and insatiable appetite for the man. For watching his face, for feeling his body, for knowing that he’s at Eames’ mercy during their sexual encounters.
He’s known what it is to feel such desire and to act upon it but he also knows that there is no good, at all, that could come from it. He’d had to move from London to Chicago to escape trouble-legal and otherwise-after being caught with another man. Eames is a man who knows what he wants and gets it, fuck the consequences.
With Arthur, though, it’s different. He’s never experienced an all-consuming need for someone else before. His previous flings were always purely hedonistic, sexual escapades that served the sole purpose of indulging in his vices. But Arthur-he’d be damned if he said he didn’t want to be the one Arthur leaned on, the one Arthur trusted. He wanted to make Arthur smile and laugh because he knew the stone-faced man was capable of it; he’d seen humor lurking in Arthur’s serious brown eyes.
The stakes are so much higher, though. He’s got Browning informed of all the Cobb gang’s moves, sneaking off in the middle of the night to bring him the latest details of the drop. Yusuf meets him at his apartment, sometimes, when Eames is sure nobody’s watching, and they listen to the radio and talk. Eames talks about the things he’s seen working with Arthur. He talks about the beating he witnessed when the man in charge of printing their labels smudges the ink on a batch and ruined them, about how Arthur had been merciless and cruel, how the beaten man had pleaded and begged through broken teeth and split lips. He talks about how Arthur drops threats like he breaths, simply and matter of fact. He tells Yusuf how much he hates Arthur and doesn’t say anything about how much he doesn’t hate Arthur-but Yusuf seems to know that anyway.
“Be careful, Eames,” he always warns when he leaves. He claps Eames on the shoulder and looks deep into his eyes. “Be careful.” Somehow, Eames knows his friend means something deeper than simply watching his back.
“Always am, Yusuf, you know that,” he always answers, grinning cheekily.
But he’s being careless with Arthur. Careless about fucking him, about his feelings for him, as if he’s some damn woman who can’t keep his heart in check. He can’t really, truly bring himself to do something about it, though. He could walk away from Arthur, could ignore the heated looks that always signal a romp in the broom closet, which is the only place that offers a substantial amount of privacy.
He doesn’t want to, though, because as much as he hates Arthur, he likes him in equal measure. He is complex and multi-faceted, flashing sides of him that are different from his stern and sometimes cruel attitude.
“Turn that up,” Arthur says suddenly one frigid morning, motioning to the radio Eames had brought in a few days previously. The clear, bright tones of Louis Armstrong’s trumpet and Bessie Smith’s voice float from the radio and Eames is surprised to hear Arthur humming along, his baritone melding perfectly with Smith’s dulcet voice.
“Well, well, well, I didn’t know you liked jazz,” he remarks, making Arthur jump. He laughs because it’s so dissimilar to who he thinks Arthur is.
“What’s so funny?” Arthur asks, narrowing his eyes.
“Darling, for someone so rigid to like music so fluid, it’s quite the paradox,” Eames says through his chuckles. “So that stick up your arse can be removed after all.”
“You of all people should know quite well that it can, Mr. Eames,” Arthur replies with a wicked smirk that shows all his teeth.
They end up fucking to the rest of the song, and it’s frantic, as it always is. This time, this time they forget that anyone could walk in on them-or, perhaps, they don’t care-and it heightens the sex, that thrill of tension. It’s the first time Eames takes Arthur from behind, bending him over a desk and pushing into him so hard the table rattles. He holds Arthur’s hips to give himself leverage, and Arthur’s fingers grip the desk so hard his knuckles turn white.
Eames focuses on those slim, slender hands, the way they curl around the edge of the desk, the way they shift when Arthur takes the strength of Eames’ movements. He focuses on these to distract him from the wanton noises Arthur makes, muffled in his mouth because he’s biting his lip, from the way Arthur clenches around him, invites him all the way in, the way Arthur snaps his hips back to meet Eames’ forward thrusts.
They come together and that’s another first. Arthur drops his head as they ride their orgasms together. Eames pulls out of him, takes his clean handkerchief from his pocket and cleans Arthur.
“Hey.” Arthur says, his tone languid. Eames looks up from where he’s kneeling on the floor, wiping the remains of Arthur’s come from the floor and desk. Arthur’s smiling beatifically at him, revealing two dimples that frame his mouth, like parentheses that Eames never wants to close.
“Yes?”
Arthur doesn’t say anything else, just regards Eames with that smile and reaches down, presses the tips of his fingers questioningly against Eames’ cheek. Eames freezes at the touch, not wanting to startle him and not trusting himself to do something stupid like kiss him. He freezes and lets Arthur touch his face.
And it’s so strange because he sees the awareness coming back to Arthur, the awareness that their unspoken boundaries-Arthur’s unspoken rules-are slowly disappearing. Arthur snatches his hand away and the smile is replaced with a scowl that holds no heat, no fierceness. It’s an expression of such strange bewilderment that Eames is left breathless, the wind knocked completely out of him, because it’s the first time he’s ever seen Arthur look anything other than the picture of pure confidence.
-
That night, Cobb rings for Arthur again. Eames knows immediately that something’s wrong. Arthur’s voice on the phone is sharp, nearly hysterical, and he thinks that he’s never heard the man like that before. He doesn’t listen to what they say but he thinks he knows.
“Fuck!” Arthur screams, punctuated by a bang that suggests he’s thrown the phone back on its cradle. “Fuck.”
His expression when he appears back in the basement is dark enough that Eames doesn’t say anything to him, just hands him his coat. Arthur takes it mechanically and leaves. Eames follows him, not to Cobb’s place but a building nearby, the top floor of a swanky building. He realizes with a start that he’s followed Arthur to his home and enters the apartment behind Arthur, who stands in the middle of the room with his head down and his shoulders shaking.
He doesn’t say anything but he locks the door behind him and walks toward Arthur slowly, hands up like he’s approaching an animal. He reaches out, touches Arthur and his hand is violently shrugged off.
“Don’t touch me,” Arthur snarls. “Don’t fucking touch me, Eames.” His voice is thick and tears splash down his face. “Don’t touch-.” A sob breaks through the angry words and his chest heaves as his breath hitches. “Don’t…”
“Oh, Arthur,” Eames says, knowing for sure now what Cobb must have told him. “Oh, darling.”
Arthur doesn’t protest his use of the pet name, just throws him a scowl that morphs into a sob and bites his lip so hard he draws blood. His body is fighting to cry but he’s trying to stop it, his neck muscles straining from the force of holding back his sobs. It’s painful to watch because, every few minutes, a small noise breaks free and Arthur nearly chokes trying to hold it all in.
“It’s okay to cry. Mal was-very special. It’s only right to mourn her.”
“No!” Arthur shouts, eyes wild. “No! She killed herself and I fucking hate her for it!” He can barely speak because he’s crying so hard and he’s still trying to tamp down on his reaction, and he’s trembling like a leaf from the effort that he looks about to burst.
“What about the kids? Cobb’s gone crazy; they can’t lose him too!”
“Arthur,” Eames says, touching him again. Arthur punches him in the face, sends him reeling.
“I said don’t touch me!” Arthur all but wails, still managing to sound dangerous even as his grief makes him look like a child. Eames nods.
“Okay, okay, I won’t touch you. I’m sorry.” So he takes a seat and waits. He waits until Arthur has calmed sufficiently and watches him carefully to make sure he won’t suffocate on his own sobs.
When Arthur’s eyes flutter closed and he throws himself onto the couch, Eames moves to sit beside him. Exhausted and rubbed emotionally raw, Arthur allows his head to drop onto Eames’ shoulder and they stay like that the rest of the night.
-
Arthur’s heart breaks. There’s Cobb’s voice over the phone, tinny and distant, but the pain in it is so evident that Arthur’s heart just about shatters. He was right. Mal was going to end Cobb, after all. Not betray him but leave him.
His heart breaks but Eames is there, silent and solid as Arthur reacts to the emotions welling up in him. Eames sits by him all night, a warm presence that keeps Arthur grounded, keeps him in reality, keeps him together. When the grey light of dawn begins to seep through the window, Arthur rubs his dry eyes, stirs for the first time in hours.
“Thank you,” he says, standing, unable to meet Eames’ eyes because he doesn’t want to see his pity. Eames stands suddenly and moves in front of him. He raises Arthur’s chin with his fingers and looks at him. Eames’ eyes burn with tender compassion and understanding and empathy. Eames looks entirely as grief-stricken as Arthur feels, as if he’s sharing in his pain, and there isn’t anything pitying about his expression or his attitude.
Every muscle in Arthur’s body stills as he stares into Eames’ eyes. Eames’ brow furrows slightly and he tilts his head, as if contemplating something. Then, he leans forward and breaches the short distance between them. His movement is hesitant and questioning, giving Arthur time to back away, to punch him, to tell him to stop. But Arthur doesn’t and Eames presses his lips to Arthur’s.
In that moment, Arthur thinks he understands what it means to be intimate with someone. The kiss is chaste and sweet but it fills Arthur with reassurance and comfort. It’s the most intimate they’ve ever been with each other but Arthur has rules.
He has rules and they’re being broken, as Eames leans into him and kisses his lips, one hand cupping Arthur’s face and the other resting gently on his waist. His rules are being broken and he can’t bring himself to care or even to remember why he clung so desperately to them in the first place. Not with Eames’ lips on his and Eames’ smell surrounding him as the morning light fills the room.
-
The funeral is private and small but extravagant. Arthur takes care of it, finding an elaborate coffin, ordering the headstone, organizes the chapel and the priest while he works out the distribution of Saito’s booze. He forgets to order flowers but that’s okay because everyone who knew Mal-from the nightclub or Cobb’s gang-brings a bouquet to the wake. The small room is full to bursting, and the combined scent of flowers and perfume and grief is staggering.
After Mal is buried and they leave Cobb to stand over her grave, a grief-bent sentinel who waters the dirt with his tears, Eames finds himself back in Arthur’s apartment. Since the day Mal died, it’s been as if all Arthur’s rules have fallen away. He’s allowed to touch Arthur and allowed to kiss him. Increasingly, too, Arthur reaches for him, touches him tentatively, searchingly.
They sit on the couch, their thighs pressed together, their shoulders rubbing. Arthur is exhausted, sorrow weighing him down as he tries to take care of Cobb’s gang. Business, apparently, doesn’t stop when tragedy strikes.
“You should sleep.”
“I can’t. Franco’s wants another case and I gotta arrange it with the boys to deliver it, get the receipts for it…”
“Shh.” Eames puts a finger on Arthur’s lips because he knows Arthur could have broken his wrist for touching him ages ago but hasn’t yet. Because he can’t take the high, almost-hysterical tone Arthur’s voice gets when he lists what he needs to do. Because Arthur is not okay.
“Stop coddling me, Eames,” Arthur snaps irritably, jerking his head away. But Eames won’t stop because there are times when anyone would need something and this is one of them.
“I won’t. If you know what’s good for you, Arthur-darling-you’re going to shut up and let me.”
“Don’t call me…”
“Darling,” Eames says and captures Arthur’s lips with his own. Arthur makes a muffled noise of protest and pushes against Eames’ chest then sighs and relaxes, letting the tension bleed from his body.
“Here.” Eames pours Arthur a glass, filled halfway with scotch he’d snuck in a flask.
“I don’t drink.” Arthur makes a face and pushes it away. Eames catches the weight of it, hears the history behind those three simple words and he wonders at it. The glass ends up on a side table, forgotten.
“You need to sleep,” Eames says again, rubbing his thumbs across the dark circles under Arthur’s eyes. “You’re bloody exhausted.”
“’M not,” he protests. “Just…”
“Exhausted.” Eames smirks mischievously and suddenly hoists Arthur into his arms and over his shoulder. He’s expecting a swift kick to the solar plexus-Arthur’s foot is in the prime position for that-or a blow to the head but Arthur just yells and squirms and doesn’t lash out.
“What the hell?” Arthur yowls when Eames deposits him onto the bed, scrambling to sit up. “What the-oof!” His angry shouting is cut off when Eames flops onto the bed with him, laughing and pulling him down.
“Relax, Arthur. Really.” He reaches down and removes Arthur’s shoes and socks-almost receives two kicks to the face-then crawls up his body and straddles his waist, unbuttoning Arthur’s somber black waistcoat, unbuttoning his crisp white shirt. He lets the clothing drop to the floor and just looks at Arthur, who has gone still and silent.
“Relax,” Eames says, and the fondness in his voice is too pronounced. He places a hand on Arthur’s chest and feels his heart, skittering wildly, and smiles, too fond too fond too fond.
Pushing it away, he rolls Arthur onto his stomach and stares, unabashed. Sinewy muscles roll under his soft alabaster skin, power and grace. He puts his hand on Arthur’s shoulders and they’re in knots so he sets to working out each and every one. Arthur hums in satisfaction, a low rumble that starts deep in his belly, and lets him.
Eames works his way down Arthur’s back, down the length of his spine to the place where it dips and joins with the curve of his arse. By now, Arthur is nothing more than a flesh-colored puddle spread across his bed.
“I’ll be going now,” Eames says and slides off the bed. He leans down to press a kiss to Arthur’s forehead-really, when will he stop?-but he feels a hand hold his wrist.
“Stay,” Arthur mumbles, eyes half-lidded, “if you want.”
Eames’ mouth goes dry at the invitation but he lets himself crawl into the bed, behind Arthur. There’s a careful distance between them, neither of them is touching the other, and the room is filled with the silence of expectation.
“Eames,” Arthur says, though it’s really just a breath, and reaches behind him, fingers searching. Their fingers entwine and Eames’ arm drapes loosely over his waist, and Eames is in such major trouble he can’t fathom it.
It hits him like a bullet, the realization, as he watches Arthur. He could fall in love with this man, a man whose eyes look at the world with an alluring combination of curiosity and condescension, who looks like he has everything and nothing figured out all at once. This man who is dark and elegant, cruel but gentle. He is the best and worst kind of man, beautiful but dangerous. Eames could give him his heart and he could hand it back to him crushed into a thousand glittering pieces.
But as Arthur drops into sleep beside him and Eames sees the way his dark lashes curl against his cheeks, feels the way his own heart swells with affection, he wonders if he already hasn’t.
Part Five