reversebang prompt #107 - All the Right Moves
Fic Title: All the Right Moves
Author: queenofinfinite
Pairing(s): Arthur/Eames, Ariadne/Robert (side)
Rating: R
Word Count: 6,772
Warnings: The F-bomb never gets old. Also, gratuitous violence, just so you know.
Summary: According to Arthur Janowitz, age 18, love is a bitch. He’s never been laid, and apart from sleazy drug runner Nash, has never had a proper boyfriend. Eames is buff and Mr. Popular and is basically everything Arthur has ever wanted. There’s just one small problem. Okay, maybe several. They both play hockey, which is great, just that Eames is Proclus. Arthur is Cobol. And Eames - has Arthur ever mentioned he is a fucking jerk? No? Well, now you know.
Disclaimer: I’ve never even stepped onto a hockey rink, ever. So most of the stuff here is scoured from Wiki, asking inane questions and assuming that hockey is basically soccer played with fewer people, only with sticks and a puck. :P Pardon my ignorance.
Eames raised an eyebrow, “’Bring it on’ didn’t work too well, I see.”
“Fuck off, Leon.” Arthur bared his teeth. “You’ve got it coming.”
He didn’t understand why Eames was being such a bastard, but this was his game, dammit, and no one ever denied him possession. It was as simple as that.
Yusuf flicked him a pass. Arthur went for it, but suddenly Eames was in his face, blocking him every which way and reading him like a child’s book. Arthur tried to shoulder his way forward, but Eames wasn’t having any of it, and before he knew it, Arthur’s lost the ball for the second time in five minutes. Shit. Cobol was already down by 2 goals, and Cobb was steadily getting redder and redder in the face. It was only a matter of time before that notorious fuse blew.
“You’re not thinking.” Eames coasts up next to him. “Keep it up like that and you’ll lose.” It was a matter of fact statement, and Arthur bristled, but didn’t reply. He needed to focus on breathing. Eames was like a tank. He didn’t seem to ever get tired, and the game was just in its beginning 20 minutes. Arthur bit back a groan. He was going to die.
Time out. Arthur was more than glad to leave the rink. He was drenched in sweat, his chest heaving and his legs were feeling like jelly. He felt like a rookie all over again, and it was fucking demoralising.
“Saito, you’re subbing for Janowitz.” Cobb ordered.
“Oy,” Arthur croaked, trying to summon up enough strength to actually protest; captains didn’t just write off their vice-captains like that, but Cobb scowled at him ferociously, “Shut up; I’ll let you play when you won’t be mistaken for a cadaver. Watch that No. 8. He’s a monster, but he isn’t invincible.”
The rest of Cobb’s rant flowed right over Arthur’s head, lost in the haze of tiredness that gripped him. Cobb was right. Eames had totally owned him. He was going to be out for a good third before he was okay enough to skate straight.
The whistle shrieked, and the rest of the guys trailed back out onto the rink. Saito ghosted over to Eames, expressionless as always. Arthur felt a vindictive pang; Saito could’ve gone to Proclus if he’d wanted, but he’d chosen Cobol and he was one of the best in the zone. Eames wouldn’t find it so easy to nail him down.
On the sidelines, the game slipped into sharper focus. Things seemed to click into perspective. Saito was running circles around Eames, the Proclus centre floundering in the face of his measured, suffocating defense. Eames, Arthur realised, wasn’t actually as fast as he seemed. His bulk gave him added strength, but it was a huge compromise on agility. His speed outstripped Arthur’s, but he was clumsy at manoeuvring on the ice, relying mostly on his superior strength and ability to predict moves to keep the opposition thumbed down. Also, the centre showed a preference for hogging the puck; he only passed it when absolutely necessary. Otherwise, it was like sending it into a black hole; once Eames had it, he wasn’t giving it back. Shut Eames down, and your possession was pretty much assured.
You’re not thinking, Eames had said. He’d noticed that Arthur wasn’t analysing the game, that he was just trying to outmatch him physically, completely forgetting how to exploit Eames’ flaws. He’d been so focused on overtaking the competition that he’d walked head-on into a rookie’s mistake. I get it now.
Fischer volleyed the puck into the back of net, Cobol’s first goal of the season. The scoreboards clicked. 1-2. Despite himself, Arthur grinned. This game was so fucking heating up. And Eames - Eames was going down.
By the time their second time-out rolled around, Cobol was implausibly leading by 3-2. Looking at the bold black numerals, Arthur felt a surge of hope welling up in him. Maybe, just maybe, they stood a chance, after all.
Yusuf, however, did not share the same sentiments, “It was a farce; they’ve gotten out hopes up and now they’re gonna flatten us in the last ten minutes... ...”, he whimpered, burying his head in his hands.
“Alright, now listen up!” Coach yelled, “We’re leading now, but this is Proclus we’re against. Cobb, you’ll lead the offense. Janowitz, I’m putting you back in. Pile on the defense on that No. 8. Saito did a good job of shutting him down, so don’t screw it up. Proclus will force you to speed up your game, but slow it down. The focus here is gonna be on defense, not scoring goals, and I want to see you guarding your man at all times. And for fuck’s sake,” this was to Yusuf, who’d fumbled the puck,” look before you pass. Deny them, and we win.”
Eames grinned at him, a crooked flash of teeth as Arthur took up his position opposite him, “Figured it out yet, Arthur?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Arthur snarled, eyes fixed on the puck, muscles tensed to move.
It dropped with a clatter, spinning on the ice, and Arthur slewed sharply away from Eames, slicing the puck to a waiting Fischer in a single fluid movement. Eames swore, startled at the sudden burst of speed. Fischer passed off to a waiting Cobb, who slid between two defencemen to nail the puck right into the top corner of the net. Arthur couldn’t hide a smile as he saw the numerals clack up. Cobol were two goals ahead. Let’s see you beat that, Proclus.
After that, keeping Eames down was... easier. He wasn’t completely familiar with the centre’s style of play, but the twenty-odd minutes on the bench watching Proclus’ dynamics had helped. He was no longer chasing after Eames and falling behind; now it was Eames who was struggling to stay in the game, and growing increasingly frustrated when he realised that he wasn’t going to shake off Arthur as effortlessly as before.
“Fast learner, aren’t you,” grunted the brawny centre, but it was not a question.
“Yeah.” Arthur glared back, shoving Eames as they fought to get into position.
Eames’ eyes narrowed dangerously, “Watch it, rookie.”
All friendliness had drained out from his voice. What remained was furious contempt, and Arthur read it in the edge in his eyes and the grim set of his jaw. Arthur’s stomach gave a sickening lurch. It was bad enough that he was hung up over Eames like that already; he sure as hell didn’t need this, right now.
“Who you’re calling rookie, asshole?” Arthur hissed, hackles rising defensively.
“Arthur - “Fischer yelled warningly.
Arthur spun around, only to see the puck skidding by him. Eames pounced, all fluid motion and quicksilver speed, rescuing the puck and flicking it to a waiting Tadashi, who immediately took off towards Cobol’s goal. Fuck.
Eames jabbed a finger into Arthur’s chest, “You’re not the only one who can pull shite off, Janowitz. Remember that.”
“Hey, hey!” The ref pointed at them warningly, scowling, “This is a match, so knock it off. If you’re not happy, take it off the rink.”
Yusuf coasted up, grabbing Arthur’s wrist and hauling him away from Eames’ challenging gaze, “Cool it, dude. You get into foul trouble, we’re in deep shit. Hold it for fifteen, and then you can beat him up. Hell, I’ll even join in.”
Arthur took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves, “Yeah, I’ll be okay. Really.” He added pointedly, shaking his arm free of Yusuf’s restraining grip.
Eames scoffed, “Yeah? Like hell you will be, Cobol boy. You’re a fucking mess. Don’t think I haven’t noticed - “
“Fuck you, you son of a bitch,” Arthur hissed, grabbing the collar of Eames’ jersey. He was toeing a perilously thin line here, but right now he couldn’t give a shit. Eames was a traitorous bastard and he deserved what he was going to get -
They went down in a flurry of ice chips and punches, snarling and grappling with each other. Arthur grunted as his head smacked back against the ice. Undeterred he drove his knee into Eames’ ribcage, knocking the breath out of the opposing centre. And then Eames was choking and twisting, ripping himself free of Arthur’s grasp -
Someone was yelling. Was it the referee or Cobb, Arthur wasn’t sure. There was a moment of vertigo and suddenly Eames wasn’t in his face anymore. Dimly, he registered three pairs of arms towing him steadily backwards. Dom Cobb looked apoplectic. Eames was arguing with Tadashi, the captain gesticulating furiously with one hand as he propelled Eames back with the other.
Coach didn’t even bother looking at him. “Bench. Now.”
Proclus won.
The atmosphere in the locker room was ominously brittle. Arthur studiously avoided everyone’s stares, opting to keep his mouth shut, get his kit sorted out as fast as possible and get the hell out of there. It was his fault they’d lost, and he knew it. If he hadn’t gotten into a fight with Eames, damn him, they might’ve stood a chance. Now, they’d conceded the first out of five games.
I shouldn’t have let him get to me. Arthur sighed inwardly, sticking out his hand for a cab.
Cars streamed by him, none of them stopping. He checked his watch. It was getting late, but not that anyone would notice. His parents worked late; Arthur hardly ever saw them, except maybe on odd Sundays. His stomach rumbled forlornly. Too bad he’d never really learnt how to cook. He’d have to make a pit stop before he headed home.
A gleaming black Audi pulled up in front of him, hazard lights flashing. What the -
The driver rolled the window down. It was Eames.
Arthur looked away pointedly, studying the traffic. It was stupidly childish, but he wasn’t in a mood to deal with any of the crap Eames wanted to hurl at him now.
“Hey.” Eames sounded contrite, “I’m sorry - about just now.”
“Yeah, well.” Arthur shrugged, still not looking at him, “Too late now, isn’t it?”
Eames pinched the bridge of his nose and tipped his head back against the seat, “Look - I know what I did was fucking insane, okay? But it’s late and cold and shite and your team’s gone and you’ve got to be hungry. And I owe you. How about dinner?”
You can shove your dinner up your - Arthur thought vindictively, but then his stomach gave a traitorous growl, and he realised that Eames was right.
“Alright.” He shrugged brusquely, “Yeah, you fucking owe me.”
Eames’ smile was unexpected and Arthur hated the way it made his heart leap, “Brill.”
Dinner turned out to be at Wendy’s. Eames paid, since he insisted. Arthur stayed silent for the most part, shutting down Eames’ attempts to make conversation. He was undecided, torn between hesitant glee at actually being so close to Eames, of all people, and then simmering anger at his so-called ‘dream guy’ who’d turned out to be a complete and utter jerk.
Finally, finally, dinner was over and they were outside Arthur’s house, which was dark.
“So, er. Thanks.” He muttered grudgingly, fumbling with the door lock.
Eames moved like greased lightning, bracing his arms on either side of Arthur’s head before he could even open the door, boxing him in a solid corral of muscle, “Wait.”
His eyes locked on Arthur’s intently, tracing the contour of a nascent bruise on Arthur’s cheek.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, reaching out to skim his fingers apologetically along Arthur’s jaw line,”I’m sorry, I never meant to -“
His fingers were warm and calloused, and Arthur leant into the touch almost instinctively, forgetting his previous anger. Eames looked - almost desperate, he thought absently, the fight going out of him as the other boy opened his mouth to speak.
“Arthur. I’m an idiot. It was just - you’re perfect.” He burst out, as if unable to stop himself, “I’m the one that’s messed up, God, I hurt you and I can’t do anything to take it back. You have no idea how much it’s killing me, I swear.“
“I - “Arthur’s head was swimming. Eames liked him. Eames, who could have practically anyone he wanted, whom he’d spent weeks of sleepless nights agonising over, was confessing to him. The knowledge was heady and warm, and he tangled his fingers with Eames’, tugging them closer.
“I like you, you know that? From the first moment I saw you, at the gym - “Arthur murmured breathlessly, his lips brushing against Eames’ palm.
“Can I - Can I - “ Eames’ eyes flicked to Arthur’s injured cheek, telegraphing his intentions. He leant over and kissed the bruise almost delicately.
“It’s alright, Eames. Seriously. I’m not a fucking porcelain doll or something. It’ll heal.” Arthur grinned, but he was blushing furiously, “Sides, that knee in the ribs I gave you more than makes up for that.”
Eames laughed, a tad hysterically, “We’re hopeless. We’ve barely even dated and we’re already beating the hell out of each other.”
Arthur smirked, “Well, at least I know what I’ve got.”
“Yeah?” Eames raised his eyebrows uncertainly, the picture of bewilderment.
“This.” He kissed the corner of Eames’ mouth, smiling when the other boy tilted his head to increase the contact.
Whatever they had - it was tenuous and vicious and push-and-pull, and Arthur wasn’t sure if it was love, but he had Eames, and Eames had him and it was more than enough. For both of them, anyway.
Maybe, just maybe, it was third time lucky.
Author: queenofinfinite
Pairing(s): Arthur/Eames, Ariadne/Robert (side)
Rating: R
Word Count: 6,772
Warnings: The F-bomb never gets old. Also, gratuitous violence, just so you know.
Summary: According to Arthur Janowitz, age 18, love is a bitch. He’s never been laid, and apart from sleazy drug runner Nash, has never had a proper boyfriend. Eames is buff and Mr. Popular and is basically everything Arthur has ever wanted. There’s just one small problem. Okay, maybe several. They both play hockey, which is great, just that Eames is Proclus. Arthur is Cobol. And Eames - has Arthur ever mentioned he is a fucking jerk? No? Well, now you know.
Disclaimer: I’ve never even stepped onto a hockey rink, ever. So most of the stuff here is scoured from Wiki, asking inane questions and assuming that hockey is basically soccer played with fewer people, only with sticks and a puck. :P Pardon my ignorance.
Eames raised an eyebrow, “’Bring it on’ didn’t work too well, I see.”
“Fuck off, Leon.” Arthur bared his teeth. “You’ve got it coming.”
He didn’t understand why Eames was being such a bastard, but this was his game, dammit, and no one ever denied him possession. It was as simple as that.
Yusuf flicked him a pass. Arthur went for it, but suddenly Eames was in his face, blocking him every which way and reading him like a child’s book. Arthur tried to shoulder his way forward, but Eames wasn’t having any of it, and before he knew it, Arthur’s lost the ball for the second time in five minutes. Shit. Cobol was already down by 2 goals, and Cobb was steadily getting redder and redder in the face. It was only a matter of time before that notorious fuse blew.
“You’re not thinking.” Eames coasts up next to him. “Keep it up like that and you’ll lose.” It was a matter of fact statement, and Arthur bristled, but didn’t reply. He needed to focus on breathing. Eames was like a tank. He didn’t seem to ever get tired, and the game was just in its beginning 20 minutes. Arthur bit back a groan. He was going to die.
Time out. Arthur was more than glad to leave the rink. He was drenched in sweat, his chest heaving and his legs were feeling like jelly. He felt like a rookie all over again, and it was fucking demoralising.
“Saito, you’re subbing for Janowitz.” Cobb ordered.
“Oy,” Arthur croaked, trying to summon up enough strength to actually protest; captains didn’t just write off their vice-captains like that, but Cobb scowled at him ferociously, “Shut up; I’ll let you play when you won’t be mistaken for a cadaver. Watch that No. 8. He’s a monster, but he isn’t invincible.”
The rest of Cobb’s rant flowed right over Arthur’s head, lost in the haze of tiredness that gripped him. Cobb was right. Eames had totally owned him. He was going to be out for a good third before he was okay enough to skate straight.
The whistle shrieked, and the rest of the guys trailed back out onto the rink. Saito ghosted over to Eames, expressionless as always. Arthur felt a vindictive pang; Saito could’ve gone to Proclus if he’d wanted, but he’d chosen Cobol and he was one of the best in the zone. Eames wouldn’t find it so easy to nail him down.
On the sidelines, the game slipped into sharper focus. Things seemed to click into perspective. Saito was running circles around Eames, the Proclus centre floundering in the face of his measured, suffocating defense. Eames, Arthur realised, wasn’t actually as fast as he seemed. His bulk gave him added strength, but it was a huge compromise on agility. His speed outstripped Arthur’s, but he was clumsy at manoeuvring on the ice, relying mostly on his superior strength and ability to predict moves to keep the opposition thumbed down. Also, the centre showed a preference for hogging the puck; he only passed it when absolutely necessary. Otherwise, it was like sending it into a black hole; once Eames had it, he wasn’t giving it back. Shut Eames down, and your possession was pretty much assured.
You’re not thinking, Eames had said. He’d noticed that Arthur wasn’t analysing the game, that he was just trying to outmatch him physically, completely forgetting how to exploit Eames’ flaws. He’d been so focused on overtaking the competition that he’d walked head-on into a rookie’s mistake. I get it now.
Fischer volleyed the puck into the back of net, Cobol’s first goal of the season. The scoreboards clicked. 1-2. Despite himself, Arthur grinned. This game was so fucking heating up. And Eames - Eames was going down.
By the time their second time-out rolled around, Cobol was implausibly leading by 3-2. Looking at the bold black numerals, Arthur felt a surge of hope welling up in him. Maybe, just maybe, they stood a chance, after all.
Yusuf, however, did not share the same sentiments, “It was a farce; they’ve gotten out hopes up and now they’re gonna flatten us in the last ten minutes... ...”, he whimpered, burying his head in his hands.
“Alright, now listen up!” Coach yelled, “We’re leading now, but this is Proclus we’re against. Cobb, you’ll lead the offense. Janowitz, I’m putting you back in. Pile on the defense on that No. 8. Saito did a good job of shutting him down, so don’t screw it up. Proclus will force you to speed up your game, but slow it down. The focus here is gonna be on defense, not scoring goals, and I want to see you guarding your man at all times. And for fuck’s sake,” this was to Yusuf, who’d fumbled the puck,” look before you pass. Deny them, and we win.”
Eames grinned at him, a crooked flash of teeth as Arthur took up his position opposite him, “Figured it out yet, Arthur?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Arthur snarled, eyes fixed on the puck, muscles tensed to move.
It dropped with a clatter, spinning on the ice, and Arthur slewed sharply away from Eames, slicing the puck to a waiting Fischer in a single fluid movement. Eames swore, startled at the sudden burst of speed. Fischer passed off to a waiting Cobb, who slid between two defencemen to nail the puck right into the top corner of the net. Arthur couldn’t hide a smile as he saw the numerals clack up. Cobol were two goals ahead. Let’s see you beat that, Proclus.
After that, keeping Eames down was... easier. He wasn’t completely familiar with the centre’s style of play, but the twenty-odd minutes on the bench watching Proclus’ dynamics had helped. He was no longer chasing after Eames and falling behind; now it was Eames who was struggling to stay in the game, and growing increasingly frustrated when he realised that he wasn’t going to shake off Arthur as effortlessly as before.
“Fast learner, aren’t you,” grunted the brawny centre, but it was not a question.
“Yeah.” Arthur glared back, shoving Eames as they fought to get into position.
Eames’ eyes narrowed dangerously, “Watch it, rookie.”
All friendliness had drained out from his voice. What remained was furious contempt, and Arthur read it in the edge in his eyes and the grim set of his jaw. Arthur’s stomach gave a sickening lurch. It was bad enough that he was hung up over Eames like that already; he sure as hell didn’t need this, right now.
“Who you’re calling rookie, asshole?” Arthur hissed, hackles rising defensively.
“Arthur - “Fischer yelled warningly.
Arthur spun around, only to see the puck skidding by him. Eames pounced, all fluid motion and quicksilver speed, rescuing the puck and flicking it to a waiting Tadashi, who immediately took off towards Cobol’s goal. Fuck.
Eames jabbed a finger into Arthur’s chest, “You’re not the only one who can pull shite off, Janowitz. Remember that.”
“Hey, hey!” The ref pointed at them warningly, scowling, “This is a match, so knock it off. If you’re not happy, take it off the rink.”
Yusuf coasted up, grabbing Arthur’s wrist and hauling him away from Eames’ challenging gaze, “Cool it, dude. You get into foul trouble, we’re in deep shit. Hold it for fifteen, and then you can beat him up. Hell, I’ll even join in.”
Arthur took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves, “Yeah, I’ll be okay. Really.” He added pointedly, shaking his arm free of Yusuf’s restraining grip.
Eames scoffed, “Yeah? Like hell you will be, Cobol boy. You’re a fucking mess. Don’t think I haven’t noticed - “
“Fuck you, you son of a bitch,” Arthur hissed, grabbing the collar of Eames’ jersey. He was toeing a perilously thin line here, but right now he couldn’t give a shit. Eames was a traitorous bastard and he deserved what he was going to get -
They went down in a flurry of ice chips and punches, snarling and grappling with each other. Arthur grunted as his head smacked back against the ice. Undeterred he drove his knee into Eames’ ribcage, knocking the breath out of the opposing centre. And then Eames was choking and twisting, ripping himself free of Arthur’s grasp -
Someone was yelling. Was it the referee or Cobb, Arthur wasn’t sure. There was a moment of vertigo and suddenly Eames wasn’t in his face anymore. Dimly, he registered three pairs of arms towing him steadily backwards. Dom Cobb looked apoplectic. Eames was arguing with Tadashi, the captain gesticulating furiously with one hand as he propelled Eames back with the other.
Coach didn’t even bother looking at him. “Bench. Now.”
Proclus won.
The atmosphere in the locker room was ominously brittle. Arthur studiously avoided everyone’s stares, opting to keep his mouth shut, get his kit sorted out as fast as possible and get the hell out of there. It was his fault they’d lost, and he knew it. If he hadn’t gotten into a fight with Eames, damn him, they might’ve stood a chance. Now, they’d conceded the first out of five games.
I shouldn’t have let him get to me. Arthur sighed inwardly, sticking out his hand for a cab.
Cars streamed by him, none of them stopping. He checked his watch. It was getting late, but not that anyone would notice. His parents worked late; Arthur hardly ever saw them, except maybe on odd Sundays. His stomach rumbled forlornly. Too bad he’d never really learnt how to cook. He’d have to make a pit stop before he headed home.
A gleaming black Audi pulled up in front of him, hazard lights flashing. What the -
The driver rolled the window down. It was Eames.
Arthur looked away pointedly, studying the traffic. It was stupidly childish, but he wasn’t in a mood to deal with any of the crap Eames wanted to hurl at him now.
“Hey.” Eames sounded contrite, “I’m sorry - about just now.”
“Yeah, well.” Arthur shrugged, still not looking at him, “Too late now, isn’t it?”
Eames pinched the bridge of his nose and tipped his head back against the seat, “Look - I know what I did was fucking insane, okay? But it’s late and cold and shite and your team’s gone and you’ve got to be hungry. And I owe you. How about dinner?”
You can shove your dinner up your - Arthur thought vindictively, but then his stomach gave a traitorous growl, and he realised that Eames was right.
“Alright.” He shrugged brusquely, “Yeah, you fucking owe me.”
Eames’ smile was unexpected and Arthur hated the way it made his heart leap, “Brill.”
Dinner turned out to be at Wendy’s. Eames paid, since he insisted. Arthur stayed silent for the most part, shutting down Eames’ attempts to make conversation. He was undecided, torn between hesitant glee at actually being so close to Eames, of all people, and then simmering anger at his so-called ‘dream guy’ who’d turned out to be a complete and utter jerk.
Finally, finally, dinner was over and they were outside Arthur’s house, which was dark.
“So, er. Thanks.” He muttered grudgingly, fumbling with the door lock.
Eames moved like greased lightning, bracing his arms on either side of Arthur’s head before he could even open the door, boxing him in a solid corral of muscle, “Wait.”
His eyes locked on Arthur’s intently, tracing the contour of a nascent bruise on Arthur’s cheek.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, reaching out to skim his fingers apologetically along Arthur’s jaw line,”I’m sorry, I never meant to -“
His fingers were warm and calloused, and Arthur leant into the touch almost instinctively, forgetting his previous anger. Eames looked - almost desperate, he thought absently, the fight going out of him as the other boy opened his mouth to speak.
“Arthur. I’m an idiot. It was just - you’re perfect.” He burst out, as if unable to stop himself, “I’m the one that’s messed up, God, I hurt you and I can’t do anything to take it back. You have no idea how much it’s killing me, I swear.“
“I - “Arthur’s head was swimming. Eames liked him. Eames, who could have practically anyone he wanted, whom he’d spent weeks of sleepless nights agonising over, was confessing to him. The knowledge was heady and warm, and he tangled his fingers with Eames’, tugging them closer.
“I like you, you know that? From the first moment I saw you, at the gym - “Arthur murmured breathlessly, his lips brushing against Eames’ palm.
“Can I - Can I - “ Eames’ eyes flicked to Arthur’s injured cheek, telegraphing his intentions. He leant over and kissed the bruise almost delicately.
“It’s alright, Eames. Seriously. I’m not a fucking porcelain doll or something. It’ll heal.” Arthur grinned, but he was blushing furiously, “Sides, that knee in the ribs I gave you more than makes up for that.”
Eames laughed, a tad hysterically, “We’re hopeless. We’ve barely even dated and we’re already beating the hell out of each other.”
Arthur smirked, “Well, at least I know what I’ve got.”
“Yeah?” Eames raised his eyebrows uncertainly, the picture of bewilderment.
“This.” He kissed the corner of Eames’ mouth, smiling when the other boy tilted his head to increase the contact.
Whatever they had - it was tenuous and vicious and push-and-pull, and Arthur wasn’t sure if it was love, but he had Eames, and Eames had him and it was more than enough. For both of them, anyway.
Maybe, just maybe, it was third time lucky.