Inception - Grace Under Pressure (1/10)

[osaki_nana_707]

Title: Grace Under Pressure (1/10)
Author: osaki_nana_707
Word count: ~5,600
Pairings/Characters: ArthurxEames, Robert, mentions of Yusuf and Cobb and Mal
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: mentions of underage, language, mentions of past drug abuse, currently un-betaed
Summary: AU. Sequel to Bite Hard. Arthur reunites with Eames. By the next day, they're living together. Still, with the two of them, there's always the opportunity for things to get complicated.



Grace Under Pressure

Part One

Arthur supposed it was only a matter of time before he saw Eames again.

He supposed it was only a matter of time before he glanced him on the street or spotted him across the dance floor at a club when he'd go out with his friends, but really, even he didn't expect things to happen how they did.

He really, truly, honestly did not expect to actually talk to him, much less kiss him. He didn't expect to drag Eames out to his Kia and speed the rest of the way back to his apartment and feel him up in the elevator ride to the third floor.

No, he hadn't seen any of that coming, but he was finding it difficult to care when Eames slipped his hands up underneath Arthur's shirt, cold fingers tracing along his chest in moves he still seemed to remember with practiced ease.

He hadn't ever planned on having sex with Eames again, and yet, here he was with his pants being tugged off of his ankles at the same time as his shoes, being pushed up against the wall, being freed from his shirt and kissed all the way down his spine.

"Oh, you gorgeous thing," Eames sighed, fingers dancing across Arthur's skin, and Arthur could barely make a word form in his brain, much less get it out of his mouth. "You're no scrawny teenager anymore, are you?"

Arthur just moaned low in his throat because Eames was sticking a slick finger inside of him up to the first knuckle. Arthur wondered for a second how Eames could possibly know where the lube was in an apartment he'd never been to, but he then remembered that he always put it in the same place Eames had put his. He also wondered why they were up against the wall when the bed was literally three feet away, but then Eames pushed his finger in deeper and Arthur forgot how to think.

"You are tight," Eames mentioned. "You're out of practice."

"What was your first clue?" Arthur barked back teasingly because he was already so painfully hard he thought he might come just from Eames's fingers inside him alone, never being touched.

Eames took him by the shoulders, whirling him around, and then threw him onto the bed, pressing his body flush with Arthur's nearly immediately afterward. Arthur grinded himself against Eames's thigh, groaning in a way he was pretty sure he'd never done before.

"Why are you still dressed?" Arthur complained.

Eames laughed and tugged the t-shirt and the long-sleeved shirt off of his chest in one fluid motion, tossing it into a crumpled heap in the floor.

Arthur made immediate mental notes about Eames's new tattoos.

Eames added his jeans and underwear to the pile immediately and then lifted Arthur's leg but only to tug off one of the socks he was still wearing.

"Eames," Arthur whined. "Fuck me, for God's sake!"

Eames kissed the bottom of Arthur's foot and let the other sock be, hoisting both of Arthur's legs up and pressing himself against his entrance. "It might hurt."

"Feels good," Arthur murmured, head lolling backwards, eyes rolling.

It had been way too long, Arthur thought.

Eames shoved himself inside, and Arthur didn't howl out because he still had some tiny semblance of self-control, but there were tears instantly. He clawed at the sheets, trying to grip to something, and let Eames fold him over and fuck him with the same intensity and speed that he had used the first time.

…Eames, with his stubble and lips and intense eyes that saw only him in that moment… Fuck, he was good-looking. Eames had only gotten better looking, Arthur thought, but truthfully he was too blissed out by his nostalgia to be an accurate judge at the moment. He loved Eames's short prickly hair just as much as the messy hair he used to wear, and he loved that Eames smelled the same, and he loved that Eames still knew just how to make him make that sound. He adored the new tattoos, and he cared nothing about how Eames had thinned out over five years, even though he'd been a fan of his bulk. The truth was, it was possible that he hadn't and Arthur was remembering it wrong…

…but that was impossible, because Arthur remembered everything about Eames perfectly.

It didn't take long before Arthur let out a shuddering scream and spilled all over himself, too out of practice to hold out for long, and he watched while Eames pulled out, only vaguely able to realize that he hadn't worn any protection, that there was warmth dripping out from inside of him.

It wasn't surprising. He didn't have anything.

Arthur was dazed in post-coital bliss and Eames, just like always, cleaned him up before sinking down into the bed next to him, pressing kisses down his neck and collarbone.

"You want to go again?" Arthur asked, heaving for breaths even still.

Eames hummed a little against Arthur's throat. "Give me a few minutes," Eames said. "I'm not as young as I used to be."

Eames fell asleep though, and Arthur didn't care, curling up in Eames's arms and thinking that he was stupid to ever let it stop.

When Arthur got home from school, Eames was still there. Arthur hadn't completely expected that to be the case, but it wasn't an unpleasant surprise.

However, when he shut the door and tossed his keys into the bowl by the door, he took a good, long, non-infatuated look at Eames who was sitting at his kitchen table, hunched over a bowl of cereal like he'd literally just gotten up.

Eames was thinner. It wasn't just Arthur's imagination. On top of that, he looked ragged, a man who had been grinding his gears against society's and not getting very far. The clothes he had been wearing the day before were the same ones he was wearing now (which wasn't surprising, since he hadn't actually had anything with him), and Arthur realized now that they were holey, faded, and didn't exactly smell nice. His stubble didn't seem planned either… and if the way he was shoveling the cereal into his mouth was any indication, he hadn't exactly eaten recently.

"Arthur," he greeted, beaming like the sun itself.

"Hey," Arthur said, slipping into the seat across from him. He noticed the dirt under Eames's fingernails. "I didn't think you'd still be here."

"Why the bloody hell would I leave? I'd never go without saying goodbye, especially not after how good last night was. If you're going to send me packing, I do hope you'll give me one for the road."

Arthur chuckled, digging a cigarette out of his pocket. "Last night might not have been my wisest decision."

Eames dug a lighter out of his jeans and lit Arthur's cigarette for him. "You never were one for wise decisions, darling, but they usually work out for you in the end. I wonder if you got that from me."

Arthur exhaled, smoke misting Eames in his vision. "It was a spur of the moment thing. I wasn't thinking. I shouldn't have-Well, I really shouldn't have done all that. It probably wouldn't be the best idea to start fucking around with you… again…" he suddenly seemed to find the tabletop very interesting.

Eames took Arthur's cigarette and puffed on it a few times before placing it back between his lips. "Fucking around?" Eames asked, making a face. "I didn't just fuck you for entertainment value, if that's what you're thinking."

"Oh, really," Arthur replied, sounding skeptical so as not to sound distressed. His heart thudded against his ribcage, and it was like the beginning of things all over again.

Truth be told, he knew he never fell out of love with Eames. However, he didn't realize how strong his feelings still were until he was staring possibility in the face.

"What does that mean?" Arthur continued.

"It means I wanted to fuck you because I always wanted to. I may have been with other people over the years, but… well, Arthur, it's always been you."

"Always been me-Is this some kind of code?" Arthur asked, but he could feel the heat rising beneath his skin. He had a feeling he knew what it meant, but he wasn't going to play the game and get his hopes up. He wasn't a stupid teenager anymore. He wanted to hear it point-blank.

He wanted to say it back.

Say it, he begged with his eyes because it had been what he'd wanted since he was an awkward, unsure sixteen-year-old. Please say it.

Eames snorted, grinning. "You want me to be obvious? Not one for the romantic words and wistful gestures, eh? You really are all grown up now, aren't you? Fine. I love you. I've loved you for years, you ignorant git. Use your bonce."

Arthur didn't cry, even though he wanted to. "Jeez, all you had to do was say so," he said nonchalantly. "I might not have left all those years ago if you'd just said it then."

"-which is why I specifically didn't say that," Eames interrupted. "You and I both know that it wouldn't work back then… but we're both adults now, and I have to be honest with you, love…" Eames paused to drink the milk out of his bowl, clearly a bit uncomfortable admitting what he was saying.

When he continued, Arthur understood why.

"Well… ever since that day you left, I've thought about you and thought about you. I was bloody miserable. The only time I was happy was when I was painting, and all my paintings were inspired by every second with you. Once I wore those times out, I ran out of inspiration, and now… well… I'm not doing so well. The economy's not so good, so the steakhouse I was working at closed down, and I couldn't find another job, and I lived with Yusuf for a while. That… didn't work out so well, either, so I got my own place, but with my inspiration running dry, I couldn't afford to keep it and… now… um… Now, I call the local bus station or the library steps my home when I don't have a friend to stay with."

Arthur lowered the cigarette from his mouth, pressing it into the ashtray. "Eames, you're… homeless?"

"I guess you could say that," Eames shrugged. "They always say home is where the heart is, but it's pretty difficult to feel that way when you're freezing your arse off. I've only been on the street for about two months, and I did spend quite a few days of it inside though, so I'm okay. I haven't been going without completely. I panhandle and draw portraits. I manage… Truth is, if I thought about that time together with you, things didn't seem so bad."

"Oh, my God, Eames," Arthur sighed, and he very nearly did cry then.

"Yusuf doesn't know I'm on the streets. I don't want to worry him… I'm ah-sorry for springing all this on you. I don't want you to worry about me either. I would have told you, but I was so happy to see you, and I didn't want to spoil it. I wanted to… I wanted to tell you how I felt, at least."

"I won't have to worry about you," Arthur replied, standing sharply, "because you're going to stay here with me. It's not big, but I can handle the rent and all that since my mom set up a trust fund for me with dear old ex-daddy's money. If you can help out with groceries once in a while-"

"I can't ask you to do that, Arthur-"

"No, no… it's fine. It's cool, Eames… I mean…" Arthur paused when he realized his hands were shaking and tried squeezing them into fists to make it stop, but it only made it more obvious.

…Shit, he was crying.

"I… I love you too, Eames," he sniffed, sinking backwards into his sixteen-year-old self. "If you don't stay, I will worry about you. God damn it, it wasn't supposed to be this way… I wasn't supposed to still feel this way after all these years. We weren't supposed to talk or do this again-but I don't care, I just-"

Eames took him into his arms them, stroking his hair, and Arthur felt just as weak and childish as he used to, and he hated it. It was specifically why the whole Eames thing wasn't supposed to happen again because he needed to be stronger. He needed to be his own person and not let Eames control everything he did, but-

"I can paint with you here," Eames said. "If I'm going to stay, I'll do my part, all right? When I'm back on my feet, we'll see what we'll do then, all right?"

Arthur just nodded weakly.

"I love you, darling," Eames whispered in Arthur's ear.

"I love you too."

Eames went and retrieved the few items he owned from miscellaneous friends while Arthur was at school the next day.

An old acquaintance from school named Julia had all of his clothes and his motorcycle.

A ex-work buddy that Eames didn't actually like that much named Nash held onto his art supplies but always complained about them smelling and taking up space.

He left his unsold paintings in a storage room at his dealer's house.

Vince Tabor was a scrawny, dirty-teethed man in his early thirties that Eames knew was kind of a prick, but he was reliable enough. Eames stored his paintings in the empty room in his house, sometimes slept on the floor, and always got his blow there.

Eames wasn't as bad about using it as he used to be, really he wasn't. When things got dark for him, when inspiration was low and work was miserable (he hadn't intended on work being non-existent), he was tempted into taking a hit from Vince during a walk home from a bar. He was a little drunk and a lot lonely and ended up agreeing after a persistent argument that only a previous heroin addict could possibly understand. He'd shot up that night, just once, and it was glorious. When he was high, he couldn't remember why he had ever stopped. It just felt good.

So, yes, he shot up occasionally. Maybe a couple of times a week. Maybe only once a week. On a particularly bad week he may have done it every day, but that was only one week, and most of the time he was fine. It wasn't like he was selling his paintings and drawings and panhandling just so he could buy drugs. He needed food and clothes and art supplies and tea too.

Still, when Yusuf had found his stash, he'd kicked Eames out and hadn't spoken to him since. Eames had tried to tell him that he wasn't a fucking addict anymore; that he just did it on bad days, but Yusuf never did know how to listen to reason.

"Howdy," Vince greeted, swinging open the door. His voice was gravelly and discomforting as always. He leaned against the doorframe, and Eames wasn't sure if it was just a casual, comfortable gesture, or if it was just that he needed it to stay standing. Vince was an addict; not Eames. "What can I do you for?"

"Came to get all of my shit out of your room. I've got a place to stay now."

"Awesome," Vince said, stepping aside to let Eames in, gesturing up the rickety wooden stairs with a dirt-smudged hand. "That shit is crowding up the place anyways. Hope whoever you're living with doesn't get annoyed by clutter… you know, or shitty artwork."

"Kindly go fuck yourself," Eames replied with a forced smile. He tried to remain on friendly terms with Vincent, shrug things off as teasing and jokes, but it was a difficult task to accomplish. "Bring me a bag, would you? I've got your money."

Eames carried his paintings two at a time down the stairs to the waiting taxi outside. He thankfully only had eight, cramming them into the trunk and backseat while being able to hold one in the front (the cab driver didn't much like it, but Eames had already paid him extra). Vince patted Eames on the ass as Eames leaned over to put the last painting in the trunk, but Eames didn't protest because he felt the small bag get slipped into his jeans pocket.

"Come back again soon," Vince said, pocketing the money Eames slipped to him discreetly, "or don't, y'know, since you take up so much space. Have fun mooching off someone else for a change. You're lucky I didn't burn these atrocities."

Eames cracked his knuckles to avoid punching the bastard, just like he usually did. It was all part of the exchange.

"Thanks again, Vince," Eames replied, forcing on another smile. "Ta."

Eames left more on edge than before, keeping his eyes peeled for cops and for any suspicious activity from the driver. He knew when he had heroin in his pocket, he couldn't trust anyone.

It was something that Roxanne had taught him.

When Arthur returned home, he found his apartment littered with paintings and his washing machine rattling. Eames was sprawled out in Arthur's bed, snoring. Arthur couldn't help but pout a little, since he'd wanted to spend some time with him, but with all the new items scattered around his apartment, he imagined Eames had worn himself out.

He microwaved pizza rolls and munched on them while working on his homework.

It was just as he was switching subjects that Eames shuffled out of the room, looking around blearily as though he'd never seen the place before.

"What time is it?" he asked, voice still slurred with sleep.

"About five-thirty, six," Arthur replied with a shrug. "I do hope you haven't been napping all day."

"It's because I intend to keep you up all night," Eames responded with a mischievous grin, but it lacked strength. He placed a palm on the back of Arthur's neck and leaned down to kiss him.

Arthur noticed Eames's hand was clammy, and he also thought he smelled something oddly unfamiliar, but then Eames's mouth was on his, and he forgot to care.

He brought his palm to Eames's cheek, stretching his neck to deepen the kiss as much as he could from his seat, and suddenly Eames was lifting him into his arms and carrying him across the floor, expertly managing not to break the kiss.

By the time they were in the bedroom, Arthur was struggling for air, and Eames pulled away to smile at him.

"Eames, I have a paper to write-" Arthur tried to say, but it barely came out as he swallowed air.

"Then, we'll just have to be quick then, won't we?" Eames replied, raising his eyebrows.

…and really, Arthur couldn't say no to that, not when Eames was touching him like that, and he nearly let himself just give into the pleasure completely.

It was just before Eames pushed himself inside that Arthur managed to regain some composure, despite his arousal, and stop him. "Eames, wait," he said, and Eames did.

"Something wrong?"

"Did you get um-" Arthur said, gesturing uselessly. "Um-the uh, protection?" He'd asked him to pick some up on his way out that morning.

Eames furrowed his brow, trying to remember. "I… forgot, sorry… but, I mean, we did it before."

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ignore his desire to just go ahead and do it. "No, no… Eames, we-I shouldn't have done that. I mean, I don't know who all you've slept with, and you used to do drugs, so-"

"Arthur, I'm clean," Eames replied, seemingly instantly frustrated. "I've been tested, all right? I haven't fucked anybody since you. I've blown and been blown a couple of times, but that's it."

He left out the part that he hadn't been tested since before he met Arthur, but really, he didn't shoot up with anyone else, so he figured he was fine.

Arthur seemed wary and unsure, and he said, "You really haven't fucked anyone but me? In all five years?"

"Really," Eames replied. "Why, have you? Not that I'd be mad or anything-"

"No. Never."

Arthur decided not to think too hard about what that meant.

Eames apparently didn't either. "Then we're hunky-dory, right? Are we going to shag or not?"

Eames ran a finger up Arthur's cock, causing him to shiver and consent to him. It spilled out of his mouth in a moan while he arched up to get some sort of friction.

He still wasn't sure. He still felt like it was a bad idea, lectures from his sex education classes rolling around inside his head with the admissions of previous boyfriends… but fuck, it just… felt good.

He didn't want to have to think about consequences because it was Eames. It was Eames, the man he was in love with, the man he'd been in love with for years and finally had him all to himself, legally. He wanted to believe that he and Eames were just meant to be together and didn't have to get tested or wear protection because they weren't going to be shoving their pricks into anybody else. He wanted to believe that with everything he was because he'd had dreams and fantasies about that kind of life since he'd fallen for him back when he was a love-struck, stupid teenager.

Still… as much as he wanted to believe in the idea, some nagging thought in the back of his mind wouldn't let it go. Something there in his skull told him that it was a bad idea to even risk it, even if it was Eames… actually, it was more dangerous because it was Eames.

Had Eames used needles when he did drugs in the past? Had he and Roxanne shared needles? Was Roxanne clean? Roxanne had whored herself out for money for the drugs. Were the people she'd slept with clean?

The idea of it made him suddenly terrified, and he was shouting as Eames thrust into him now, hands scrambling at the headboard for some sort of support, and after only four thrusts from Eames, Arthur was spilling all over himself with a yelp.

He could tell Eames tried not to appear disappointed by how quick it had happened, but he could see it in his eyes.

"I'm-" Arthur started, but Eames cut him off with a light smooch.

"No apologies. It happens to the best of us. Maybe you'll be ready again by the time I'm finished."

Arthur just squeezed his eyes shut and let Eames continue and tried to turn his brain off.

When Eames was spent and asleep, an arm slouched over Arthur's chest, Arthur ran his fingertips down Eames's spine that protruded from his skin more than it used to and wondered why he couldn't just be a good boyfriend and let it go.

…but he just couldn't.

"You were a little late this morning."

Arthur blinked, looking up from his notes. Leaning over the table was Robert, the Dean's son and a friend of Arthur's. They'd gotten along fairly well from the start being that they were both gay and both had jackass fathers, but Arthur had never been interested in dating him. Robert was the type who nitpicked every single thing, a perfectionist in his own right, and he had the tendency to be a bit of a bastard when he didn't get his way (Arthur couldn't say he was completely different). Still, the boy was quite the accomplished writer (they'd met in Arthur's journalism classes), and he had some of the most amazing blue eyes Arthur had ever seen. He was still working on getting him to pose as his model, but Robert was camera shy.

"I overslept," Arthur responded, shrugging. It wasn't a lie. Eames had made good on his promise and kept him busy most of the night.

Robert slipped around to take a seat next to Arthur, bumping his shoulder with his elbow as he took a seat. "You didn't have your homework for your first class. What were you doing last night?"

"Trying to study for the test, like now," Arthur lied, gesturing at the rest of the students going over their notes one final time before the teacher walked in.

"Oh, you'll be fine," Robert said, rolling his eyes. "Even if you fail, it won't mar your fabulous record."

"You don't have to sound so jealous, Rob," Arthur replied with a small smirk, tilting his chin to lean it against the palm of his hand.

Robert raised his eyebrows at Arthur, and Arthur realized too late that the stretching of his neck had revealed a reddened bite mark on his collarbone.

"What?" Arthur asked defensively, sitting up straight again to hide it in the hopes that Robert didn't see it, but of course he did.

"You weren't studying last night," Robert whispered, eyes wide, slasher smile in place as per usual when he got too excited. "You got laid last night, didn't you!"

"Keep your voice down," Arthur hissed, even though Robert had already been whispering.

"You did, you did. Oh, my God, and here I thought you'd-everyone thought you were a prude."

"Not prude, just picky," Arthur huffed, and he knew he was blushing noticeably. He only hoped no one else was watching. He couldn't get up the nerve to look up from his notes and check.

"Who was it?" Robert asked, leaning his chin on Arthur's shoulder. "It wasn't Blake, was it? You didn't get back with that asshole, did you?"

"Why would I have gotten back together with Blake?" Arthur grumbled, rubbing his temple. "Blake wasn't even willing to come out of the closet and ended up dating Sara Wilde."

"You'd think with a name like Blake everyone would already know he was gay, especially with that feathery blonde hair."

"No, I didn't get back together with Blake. I don't know why I ever liked him in the first place." Arthur shivered and grimaced for emphasis.

"Then, who was it?"

"No one you know," Arthur mumbled.

"A stranger? You're not a prude at all! Hope you had a good time with Anonymous and got him out of your apartment before he stole all of your stuff for drug money."

"Fuck off, Robert!" Arthur complained. "It's not like that. I knew who he was, okay?... Jeez… Just because you don't know him doesn't mean he was a stranger."

"I know everyone you know. What was I supposed to think?"

"I knew him back in my high school days. We were sort of… together back then, ran into each other, and… y'know… one thing led to another."

"Oh," Robert said and turned to look at the blackboard just as the teacher was walking in. He chewed on his bottom lip for a second and looked back. "Wait. You told me you didn't have a boyfriend in high school."

"Put away your notes and get out your pencils," the teacher said.

Arthur couldn't have been more grateful.

Eames couldn't stop smiling as he splattered paint across the canvas: a pale yellow underpainting-like sunlight, a peach for the crinkles around Arthur's eyes, an off-white for his teeth, a brown mixed with black for strand upon strand of long hair… and he even painted himself in there, on the other side of the canvas, their ears pressed together. He was still working on it when Arthur got in, slumping against the door and dropping all of his things around his feet with a long sigh.

"Welcome home, my love," Eames called, dropping his paintbrush down onto his easel and turning, rubbing his paint-covered hands together.

Arthur smiled, unable to help himself. "Hey," he said, crossing the room to wrap his arms around Eames's neck and just hold him, take in his scent. "You're a little flushed. You all right?"

"Just been working," Eames replied, extending his arm towards the painting for Arthur to see. "I thought you could use something to go over your mantel over there. Since this is technically our place now, I thought I'd put both of us in it."

"It's beautiful," Arthur said in awe. "Your style's changed a little since the old days."

"It happens," Eames shrugged, nosing at Arthur's neck.

"You're getting paint all over this shirt," Arthur whined, but they both knew he didn't care. It was just a white t-shirt anyways. "My friend Robert was pestering me all morning because of that little bite mark you made by the way. When are you going to figure out that biting me is going to get me in trouble? It wasn't the first time, you know."

"-but I love the little noise you make when I bite you," Eames hummed and nibbled at Arthur's jawline as if to make a point. "Besides, it's not like you've got anything to hide anymore."

"I like to keep my school life and personal life separated," Arthur replied, lifting his arms so that Eames could pull his shirt off of him. "Besides, Robert has the tendency to be a little-"

"Forward?"

"Bitchy is what most people say."

Eames laughed, dropping to his knees to undo Arthur's belt. "Why are you friends?" he asked.

"He's not so bad most of the time," Arthur said, hips tilting forward, fingers curling against Eames's head. "Maybe you can meet him some time."

"You act like you don't want me to," Eames teased before licking a wet stripe up the underside of Arthur's prick.

Arthur shuddered for a moment and managed to recover. "He's so beautiful, you might leave me for him. He's got eyes as blue as the sea."

"I'd take your honey brown eyes over his any day," Eames replied and took Arthur into his mouth.

Arthur tilted his head back, smiling with his top row of teeth biting down on his bottom lip, and all of his worries from the other day vanished.

With Eames there, with their portrait smiling at them, with Eames's paint and newspapers mixed around with Arthur's schoolwork and abandoned coffee cups, with the sun beaming in the window on both of them… Arthur thought that maybe this whole being together thing really would work.

He felt like his apartment had suddenly become a home.

Arthur groaned, knees shaking, and he wondered while he still could think why the hell he'd been so insecure about it in the first place. This was Eames. Eames was the man he was in love with, the man he'd loved for years, and he felt like he knew him better than anyone else. He didn't have any reason not to trust Eames.

…and if Eames's hands still felt kind of clammy, Arthur would blame it on the paint. If Eames's words had slurred a little when Arthur had gotten inside, he'd blame it on the accent.

He had no reason not to trust Eames…

…at least, he didn't think he did.