The Streets of Chicago Part III
He tried not to notice, he really did. It was difficult when they shared a room, though. Arthur would lay on his bed and read, his long and lean form stretched out, pert ass in perfect view and his shirt riding up his back slightly, revealing a strip of smooth skin. After a shower, his dark hair would curl around his ears and nape, leaving droplets of water that Eames desperately wanted to lick away.
Arthur had no idea what he looked like.
True, most people didn't seem to notice, but that was probably because he didn't socialize much and normally hid his face behind a book of some kind. Eames, on the other hand, had to deal with shirtless-Arthur, fresh-from-shower-Arthur, flushed-from-exercise-Arthur, nearly-naked-to-change-Arthur, and last but least, his favorite, sleeping-Arthur.
Eames knew by the time he was thirteen that he liked both boys and girls; Arthur was ten at that point, and he didn't hit his growth spurt until he was twelve. Eames didn't really notice the lithe, dark-eyed beauty Arthur was growing into until he was fourteen. Three years didn't seem like such a big age gap at seventeen, but Arthur was still much too young for Eames to be thinking about him the way he did.
Frustrating didn't even begin to cover it. It wasn't even anything, at first; just an attraction, like many he had experienced before. Except he hadn't spent nearly every hour with those attractions, or lived with them, or known them beyond superficial friendship. He certainly hadn't been as fond of them as he was of Arthur.
That attraction mushroomed into a full-blown crush. He jerked off, but tried to not imagine anything more than kissing Arthur; more than that felt wrong. He didn't know how much experience Arthur had, but he guessed it wasn't much. He wasn't even sure Arthur noticed other human beings in the sexual sense. He was fairly certain that Arthur jerked off, had fantasies, wet dreams, that was normal of any boy through puberty. He couldn't quite help wondering what Arthur thought about, and hoping that there was room for men in there somewhere.
Eames' birthday was coming up, and soon he would be “transitioned” out of the home. They'd throw him out whether he had a place to go or not, but fortunately he was smart enough to get into Oxford University. It felt right to go back to England, to revisit his early childhood and the happiest memories of his life, aside from Arthur. The home was a good place, nurturing and supportive, but it wasn't his parents and it wasn't his house. He needed to reconnect with that place in his past, so he could move on from it.
He always planned to come back.
New Year's changed things-well, it didn't change all that much really, except for Eames' hopes with Arthur. Four months shy of his eighteenth birthday, Eames planned on making his feelings for Arthur known on Valentine's Day of that year. He thought he had time.
The New Year's party at the home was never grand, but it was usually fun. There was no alcohol, nobody was old enough to drink, but everyone got stuffed with food and high from good spirits and dancing. It was approaching midnight, and Eames had lost Arthur among the girls who wanted to dance with him. He knew he was popular, and he used it to his advantage occasionally, though he never led a girl on.
When he couldn't locate Arthur, Eames decided to go out onto the porch and make his New Year's wish there. He exited the party inside quietly and pulled his coat on, slipping out through the door almost silently. He reached the edge of the porch before he noticed the two shapes on the other end, entwined together beneath the mistletoe.
Eames would know that shape anywhere.
His breath caught in his throat and it felt like something was squeezing his heart tighter and tighter, so tight he couldn't breathe.
Arthur was kissing Ariadne. She was a girl his age, almost as smart as him. She had become friends with the two of them, and Eames thought of her as one of the boys, mostly.
Apparently Arthur thought differently.
He wanted to run, to cover his eyes or look away, but he couldn't make his body move. He was frozen, and he felt strange, like he was watching the whole thing from a distance, looking at the shocked and heartbroken expression on his face and the couple making out on the porch beneath a sprig of mistletoe.
A shout from inside the house brought him back to himself. It was midnight, and everybody was celebrating. Eames shook himself, tore his eyes away from Arthur and … his girl, and swallowed. He was shaking, his hands and legs trembling with the struggle of conflicting emotions; the urge to scream, to go over and wrench Ari away from Arthur, to run as fast and far as he could, to hide, to cry.
His body was his own again, and he turned it away, made it go back inside as quietly as it had exited, and then he ran up the stairs to his room. Slamming the door, he leaned against it, breathing hard and unable to stop a sob from escaping. Dejectedly, he slid down the door and buried his face in his hands.
He was such an idiot.
He'd never had a chance with Arthur. Arthur liked girls, that much was clear; he might like boys too, but Arthur was fifteen and wouldn't think about that for years to come.
So. New Year's wish, if it wasn't too late: stay friends with Arthur for as long as he could. He already planned on writing to Arthur while he was in England. Actually, perhaps England was exactly what he needed. Distance, time, to get over this absurd crush on a boy three years his junior. Let Arthur have space for his new relationship.
Yes.