No Grand Gestures - Ch. 5
Title: No Grand Gestures (Chapter 5)
Author: Classlicity
Fandom: Inception
Pairings/Characters: Arthur/Eames, Ensemble
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Seventeen year old Arthur meets fine arts grad-student Eames at a club one night. Arthur learns to talk about his feelings, and Eames learns that sometimes silence is just fine. Many thanks to sobota for sticking with me through this whole project. We’re almost done, I promise!
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
It starts like the worst fights do, with something completely innocuous. Arthur should know better than to let his mom borrow his phone; he has an iPhone knockoff with touch screen, and apps, and the whole nine yards, and his mom has no idea how to dial it.
So when she calls him into the kitchen with a hesitant, “Arthur, who is this?” he really shouldn’t have been surprised.
Within minutes, it devolves into -
“You have been lying to me, Arthur!”
And -
“Why didn’t you care when I was dating girls?”
It ends, like all bad fights end, with screaming, and words that no one means.
“Well, it’s not like you were ever here to talk to! A plus parenting, mom. Did you take that straight from the New York Times bestseller ‘how to fuck up your kids in seven easy steps’?”
“I can’t look at you right now. This, you, you’re not my son!”
“Then don’t look!”
Arthur barely remembers to grab his coat before heading out into the swirling January snow.
------
Crouching under the small overhang of Ariadne’s front door, Arthur knocks until he can’t feel his fingers. Belatedly, he remembers that they’re in Florida visiting grandparents for the holidays. It’s fucking freezing, and he doesn’t have a hat, or gloves, or even one of his three scarves, and he’s so fucking pissed off he wants to cry.
His phone hangs heavy in his jeans pocket, where he’d stuffed it after snatching it out of his mom’s hand. Shivering, it takes him three tries to dial Phillipa, but it goes straight to voicemail, which is just his luck.
The problem was, Arthur reflects, sinking to a seat on the cold concrete porch, that he didn’t make friends easily. He didn’t make friends at all really; he had Ariadne, and Phillipa (whom he only befriended at Ariadne’s insistence), and he had his mom. Of the entire six billion people on the planet, there were three people he trusted.
It’s pathetic, he tells himself, and he pulls his phone out again to text Ari, see if the spare key is around anywhere, when he accidentally hits the same button his mom did and he does start to cry. It was a stupid picture where Arthur had just woken up and Eames was leaning against him with this cocky grin, giving him bunny ears while Arthur glared at the phone Eames is holding.
The tears burn hot on his cheeks, at least for a moment until Arthur can choke them back, wiping furiously at his face with the sleeve of his jacket. He sends Ariadne a quick text, curling into a ball to preserve his body heat and waits.
-------
Half an hour later, Arthur gives up on Ariadne. He had half expected his mom to come find him, like she did when he ‘ran away’ when he was eight, sorry that he’d ever been born. Squatting in the same spot nearly ten years later, he feels almost exactly the same, just frostbitten. He pulls his phone out and makes one last call, hoping he doesn’t have to trudge home with his tail between his legs.
He regrets it immediately when Eames actually answers.
“Arthur.” Eames’s greeting is cautious, like Arthur might hit him through the phone.
“Hey,” Arthur manages to chatter out. “God, I’m sorry, shit, never mind. Happy holidays and that whole thing.”
“Arthur, wait. What’s the matter?” And Eames sounds honestly concerned, which makes Arthur want to die of embarrassment just a little bit more.
Squeezing his eyes shut, it all spills out in a rush. “My mom kicked me out, and Ari’s in Florida, and I can’t feel my nose so can you please come get me? I mean, if you’re not busy. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called.”
“Don’t be so damn stubborn, Arthur. Just tell me where you are.”
It seems like an eternity, but it’s really only ten minutes before he hears the rumble of Eames’s Mercedes in the driveway. He’s never been so glad to see the rusty thing in his life. The heat feels so good when he slides into his seat that he can’t help but sigh in relief.
“You look positively hypothermic,” Eames says, watching him carefully.
“That tends to happen when it’s fourteen degrees out and you forget your gloves,” Arthur snaps. “I’m sorry, that came out wrong.”
Eames only chuckles, deep in his throat, and it’s a warm sound that makes Arthur squeeze his eyes shut in memory. “Don’t worry, Arthur. Your condescension is part of your charm.”
For the rest of the ride, the only sound is the squeak of the windshield wipers brushing the fat snowflakes away.
--------
Eames’s apartment looks the same as it always did, and out of habit, Arthur takes off his shoes by the door. In the kitchen, Eames is pulling mugs out of a cabinet for tea. The light from the kitchen filters into the living room, making hazy outlines of the things Arthur used to take solace in - the game controllers strewn everywhere, paints randomly on top of shelves, the broken-off corner of the coffee table.
He sinks onto the couch, curling into himself as best he can. The clink of the mug being set in front of him makes him look up, catching Eames’s guarded gaze.
“It’s chamomile. Better for nights. No caffeine.”
“Thanks,” Arthur says, reaching for the cup, just to have something to hold onto other than his knees.
Eames sits on the couch, not next to him, but near enough that Arthur can’t ignore his body heat, remembering the last time they sat like this. He shivers.
“So, do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
They sit in silence again, sipping at their tea. The half-dark of the room is relaxing, and Arthur finally feels something unclench in the pit of his stomach.
“My mom found out about…us. Being…friends with benefits, or whatever this thing was.”
Eames hums in acknowledgement, but it goes low at the end and Arthur can tell he’s frowning without seeing it. “She didn’t take it well?”
Staring at the tea in his hands, Arthur replays the whole scene in his head. “We yelled a lot. And then she told me she couldn’t look at me anymore, so I left.”
“You do a lot of that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Leaving. It’s your favorite move. Whenever something gets unpleasant and you don’t want to deal with it, you storm out like a bloody twelve year old.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Arthur has to set his cup down or else he’d crack the handle from gripping it too hard. “You were embarrassed of me, Eames. Did you want me to just sit there and take it?”
“Embarrassed of you? I introduced you to Dom and Mal and Yusuf! Did you want to meet my bloody family, too? You’re welcome to hop on a fucking plane a fly to the other side of the fucking Atlantic if that’s what you want, but here, here you’ve already met everyone who matters. But I don’t even know what your Ariadne looks like. So you tell me, who’s embarrassed of whom?”
All the anger drains from Arthur like bathwater from a tub after a long soak, leaving him boneless and shivering. He presses his cheek into the cool leather of the couch and tries not to cry.
“You said I was nothing.” His voice cracks. “You didn’t want that guy to know anything about me.”
All of a sudden, Eames’s arms are around him, pulling him close. It’s reflex for Arthur to bury his head in the crook of Eames’s neck. The tears come then, making a mess of his face and Eames’s neck and the tee-shirt Eames had put on for bed. He cries for what felt like hours - angry at his mom, and Eames, and mostly himself. Eames never stops stroking his back or kissing his drying hair. Finally, Arthur’s chest stops heaving long enough for him to take a few deep breaths and pull his head up off of Eames’s shoulder.
With a sigh, Arthur wipes ineffectually at the remaining tears in his eyes, unable to make eye contact. “Sorry. I know you probably weren’t planning on having to take care of an overly emotional teenager tonight.”
“Arthur, look at me.” Eames holds Arthur’s chin and gently tilts his head so that Arthur has to meet his gaze. “I was wrong to say that. I just…Robert doesn’t deserve to know you.”
He can’t cry anymore, so Arthur tries for a laugh, but it comes out as a choked hiccup. He knows, somewhere in the back of his head, that he has to look terrible; he hasn’t cried this hard since he was eight and his face had been red and splotchy for days, but all he could really concentrate on is the brush of Eames’s thumb across his cheek.
“Can I kiss you?” Eames asks. He’s so quiet that Arthur could barely hear him over the sound of his own breathing.
“Yeah,” Arthur whispers, gaze fixating on Eames’s mouth.
It’s nothing and everything like he remembers. Eames’s lips are just as plush, but dry, and when Arthur opens his mouth, Eames’s tongue swipes leisurely across Arthur’s, missing the urgency of their former kisses. It makes him curl his fingers into Eames’s shirt to hold himself steady so that he can unfurl his cramping legs and straddle Eames’s lap. A strong arm wraps around him, pulling him flush against Eames’s warm chest. Arthur weaves his fingers through the short crop of Eames’s hair, and he can feel Eames hum into his mouth. Just as Arthur’s tongue becomes more insistent, hips rocking expectantly, Eames pulls away.
He rests their foreheads together, eyes closed and breathing heavily. Arthur can’t help the downward twitch of his mouth. Opening his eyes, Eames smiles and kisses the corner of Arthur’s scowl.
“You need to call your mom and let her know you’re all right. I bet she’s having kittens wondering where you are.”
Arthur can’t bring himself to move, running his hands over Eames’s shoulders and arms. “And then what?”
Cocking an eyebrow at him, Eames puts on what Arthur knows is his very serious face. “And then we go to bed. To sleep.”
Carefully, Eames extracts himself from Arthur’s grip and gathers up their empty tea mugs. With a sigh, Arthur shoves himself to his feet and retrieves his phone from his jacket pocket. Eames is right - he has eight missed calls and three voicemails.
Taking a deep breath, he hits the call button.
--------
When Arthur wakes up, he’s in the comforting cradle of Eames body, wearing one of Eames’s old tee-shirts, and sleeping in Eames’s bed. He buries his face in the pillow, breathing deeply, trying to store away the smell of it forever.
“Good morning,” Eames says, voice low and raspy with sleep.
Embarrassed, Arthur freezes. “Morning.”
An arm snakes around his waist, holding him snugly against Eames’s body. “Arthur, we need to talk about this.”
The familiar nausea hits him like a freight train. ‘Talks’ in Arthur’s experience, typically ended with ‘it’s not your fault’, or ‘it won’t be that bad’, or ‘I wish you would make an effort’. He wants to leave before any of that happens, but he can’t, Eames is holding him still. So he doesn’t move and doesn’t say anything.
“Okay then, if you don’t want to talk, please listen to me.” Eames shifts his arm to make himself more comfortable, but keeps his hold on Arthur just as tight. “And I don’t know how much you’re going to like what I have to say.”
Arthur squirms a little, jaw clenched.
“Dating Robert was easy, at first. He wasn’t an artist, but his dad was a filthy rich patron of several art galleries around Sydney. He understood that art was my life; he loved that I loved it. But he was always a bit of an arrogant prick. He didn’t know how to apologize, for one. Didn’t like being told he was wrong.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I loved him anyway.” Eames presses a kiss to Arthur’s shoulder. “And then I walked in on him and his economics professor in flagrante delicto, and that was pretty much the end of it. Two years together, just…gone, worthless.”
Something in Eames’s voice, an earnestness, a vulnerability, loosens the knot in Arthur’s stomach. He reaches for Eames’s hand and squeezes, and then rolls over so that he can look Eames in the eye.
“You still love him,” Arthur says, face carefully composed.
Eames smiles, a sad twitch of the lips. “Probably. It’s hard for me to let go.”
“I don’t want to be the reason you two don’t work things out. I can go away.”
“If I asked you to, you really would, wouldn’t you?” Eames asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer, cupping Arthur’s face and kissing him tenderly.
Arthur desperately wants to pull Eames close and kiss him until they forget about everything else, and they’re too hot for clothes, and it’s nothing but mouths and skin and more, but even more than that he needs to know what Eames wants from him. Reluctantly, he pulls back, unable to keep the concern from his eyes.
It’s as if Eames had suddenly become telepathic, the way he runs a hand through Arthur’s hair soothingly. “I’m not asking for that.” He continues, “I have to ask though, do you really want to try this with someone fucked in the head like me?”
Try this. Try this. A giddy spike of adrenaline makes Arthur’s heart pound wildly, but he tries not to look too eager when he nods his head. “Yeah, I do.”
When Eames grins at him this time, the corners of his eyes crinkling, Arthur can’t help but smile back, dimples showing. He lets himself get dragged back into a kiss, lets himself take what he wants, nipping at Eames’s lips and licking into his mouth. Eames groans, hand drifting down to stroke across the waistband of Arthur’s boxers.
Arthur’s phone chooses that moment to vibrate, rattling across the nightstand and falling onto the floor.
“Fuck,” Eames breathes against Arthur’s mouth. “I need to get you home.”
“It can wait,” Arthur murmurs, hooking a leg over one of Eames’s, finding a better angle for the press of hips against thigh.
“No, god, Arthur.” Eames’s whole body jerks as Arthur snakes a hand between them to stroke teasingly at his erection. Breathing hard, Eames gently pries Arthur’s fingers off him. “As much as I want to return you looking like I just fucked you into oblivion, I really don’t think your mother would particularly appreciate it.”
He flops onto his back like he has to physically restrain himself from touching Arthur. Rolling onto his stomach, Arthur lets the pillow muffle his groan of frustration. The press of the mattress on his erection is good but not what he wants, not with Eames right there.
“I fucking hate you sometimes.”
“What was that, darling? I couldn’t hear you over all the maturity you’re exuding.”
---------
When Eames pulls up in front of Arthur’s house, letting the engine idle, it feels like Arthur’s being woken up from a truly excellent dream by the loud blaring of his alarm clock.
Staring out the windshield, Arthur tries to imagine what comes next. There’s fresh snow all over his sidewalk so he knows that as soon as he’s apologized properly to his mom he’s going to be paying his penance by shoveling it. He knows he’s not going to be able to spend the night with Eames until he’s practically forty. He knows he’s just a stupid high school kid, and that Eames will get tired of having to chauffeur him around. He knows that he wants too much from a man with his own life.
“Hey,” Eames says. Arthur blinks, coming back to himself. Eames is studying him closely. “It’ll be okay, I promise.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“Sure I can,” Eames replies, confident enough for both of them.
Unbuckling his seatbelt, Arthur practically launches himself over the gear shift, attacking Eames’s mouth with his own. It was hot with their coats on, and within seconds his torso starts to protest at the odd twist of his body, but Arthur ignores it. Eames gives as good as he gets, and Arthur is forced to break away before he gets hard again.
“I’m probably going to be grounded for life, so I just needed…” Arthur trails off, not quite sure where he was going with that statment and finding it hard to look at Eames.
Eames lets his head thunk against the headrest before giving Arthur a blatant once over. “Well, call me then, if you find yourself needing again.”
“Pervert.” Arthur shoves his shoulder, opening the door just a crack.
“Oh, and I suppose the only thing you appreciate about me is my acerbic wit?”
“You think you’re fucking clever, don’t you?” Getting out of the car makes the outside world even brighter. Ducking his head, Arthur peers back through the open door. “So Ariadne gets back from Florida tomorrow. I thought, maybe, if you wanted to and I’m still alive, we could get dinner or go to a movie or something together?”
For a minute, Eames doesn’t react at all, and Arthur’s heart stutters. But then a lazy grin spreads across Eames’s face, and he nods. “I’d like that.”
“Cool. I’ll call you.”
It’s too white and too cold and too windy on the quick walk up the driveway and he knows his mother is going to shout at him again, like she did on the phone last night, but Arthur can’t stop smiling anyway.
On to Chapter 6
Author: Classlicity
Fandom: Inception
Pairings/Characters: Arthur/Eames, Ensemble
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Seventeen year old Arthur meets fine arts grad-student Eames at a club one night. Arthur learns to talk about his feelings, and Eames learns that sometimes silence is just fine. Many thanks to sobota for sticking with me through this whole project. We’re almost done, I promise!
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
It starts like the worst fights do, with something completely innocuous. Arthur should know better than to let his mom borrow his phone; he has an iPhone knockoff with touch screen, and apps, and the whole nine yards, and his mom has no idea how to dial it.
So when she calls him into the kitchen with a hesitant, “Arthur, who is this?” he really shouldn’t have been surprised.
Within minutes, it devolves into -
“You have been lying to me, Arthur!”
And -
“Why didn’t you care when I was dating girls?”
It ends, like all bad fights end, with screaming, and words that no one means.
“Well, it’s not like you were ever here to talk to! A plus parenting, mom. Did you take that straight from the New York Times bestseller ‘how to fuck up your kids in seven easy steps’?”
“I can’t look at you right now. This, you, you’re not my son!”
“Then don’t look!”
Arthur barely remembers to grab his coat before heading out into the swirling January snow.
------
Crouching under the small overhang of Ariadne’s front door, Arthur knocks until he can’t feel his fingers. Belatedly, he remembers that they’re in Florida visiting grandparents for the holidays. It’s fucking freezing, and he doesn’t have a hat, or gloves, or even one of his three scarves, and he’s so fucking pissed off he wants to cry.
His phone hangs heavy in his jeans pocket, where he’d stuffed it after snatching it out of his mom’s hand. Shivering, it takes him three tries to dial Phillipa, but it goes straight to voicemail, which is just his luck.
The problem was, Arthur reflects, sinking to a seat on the cold concrete porch, that he didn’t make friends easily. He didn’t make friends at all really; he had Ariadne, and Phillipa (whom he only befriended at Ariadne’s insistence), and he had his mom. Of the entire six billion people on the planet, there were three people he trusted.
It’s pathetic, he tells himself, and he pulls his phone out again to text Ari, see if the spare key is around anywhere, when he accidentally hits the same button his mom did and he does start to cry. It was a stupid picture where Arthur had just woken up and Eames was leaning against him with this cocky grin, giving him bunny ears while Arthur glared at the phone Eames is holding.
The tears burn hot on his cheeks, at least for a moment until Arthur can choke them back, wiping furiously at his face with the sleeve of his jacket. He sends Ariadne a quick text, curling into a ball to preserve his body heat and waits.
-------
Half an hour later, Arthur gives up on Ariadne. He had half expected his mom to come find him, like she did when he ‘ran away’ when he was eight, sorry that he’d ever been born. Squatting in the same spot nearly ten years later, he feels almost exactly the same, just frostbitten. He pulls his phone out and makes one last call, hoping he doesn’t have to trudge home with his tail between his legs.
He regrets it immediately when Eames actually answers.
“Arthur.” Eames’s greeting is cautious, like Arthur might hit him through the phone.
“Hey,” Arthur manages to chatter out. “God, I’m sorry, shit, never mind. Happy holidays and that whole thing.”
“Arthur, wait. What’s the matter?” And Eames sounds honestly concerned, which makes Arthur want to die of embarrassment just a little bit more.
Squeezing his eyes shut, it all spills out in a rush. “My mom kicked me out, and Ari’s in Florida, and I can’t feel my nose so can you please come get me? I mean, if you’re not busy. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called.”
“Don’t be so damn stubborn, Arthur. Just tell me where you are.”
It seems like an eternity, but it’s really only ten minutes before he hears the rumble of Eames’s Mercedes in the driveway. He’s never been so glad to see the rusty thing in his life. The heat feels so good when he slides into his seat that he can’t help but sigh in relief.
“You look positively hypothermic,” Eames says, watching him carefully.
“That tends to happen when it’s fourteen degrees out and you forget your gloves,” Arthur snaps. “I’m sorry, that came out wrong.”
Eames only chuckles, deep in his throat, and it’s a warm sound that makes Arthur squeeze his eyes shut in memory. “Don’t worry, Arthur. Your condescension is part of your charm.”
For the rest of the ride, the only sound is the squeak of the windshield wipers brushing the fat snowflakes away.
--------
Eames’s apartment looks the same as it always did, and out of habit, Arthur takes off his shoes by the door. In the kitchen, Eames is pulling mugs out of a cabinet for tea. The light from the kitchen filters into the living room, making hazy outlines of the things Arthur used to take solace in - the game controllers strewn everywhere, paints randomly on top of shelves, the broken-off corner of the coffee table.
He sinks onto the couch, curling into himself as best he can. The clink of the mug being set in front of him makes him look up, catching Eames’s guarded gaze.
“It’s chamomile. Better for nights. No caffeine.”
“Thanks,” Arthur says, reaching for the cup, just to have something to hold onto other than his knees.
Eames sits on the couch, not next to him, but near enough that Arthur can’t ignore his body heat, remembering the last time they sat like this. He shivers.
“So, do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
They sit in silence again, sipping at their tea. The half-dark of the room is relaxing, and Arthur finally feels something unclench in the pit of his stomach.
“My mom found out about…us. Being…friends with benefits, or whatever this thing was.”
Eames hums in acknowledgement, but it goes low at the end and Arthur can tell he’s frowning without seeing it. “She didn’t take it well?”
Staring at the tea in his hands, Arthur replays the whole scene in his head. “We yelled a lot. And then she told me she couldn’t look at me anymore, so I left.”
“You do a lot of that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Leaving. It’s your favorite move. Whenever something gets unpleasant and you don’t want to deal with it, you storm out like a bloody twelve year old.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Arthur has to set his cup down or else he’d crack the handle from gripping it too hard. “You were embarrassed of me, Eames. Did you want me to just sit there and take it?”
“Embarrassed of you? I introduced you to Dom and Mal and Yusuf! Did you want to meet my bloody family, too? You’re welcome to hop on a fucking plane a fly to the other side of the fucking Atlantic if that’s what you want, but here, here you’ve already met everyone who matters. But I don’t even know what your Ariadne looks like. So you tell me, who’s embarrassed of whom?”
All the anger drains from Arthur like bathwater from a tub after a long soak, leaving him boneless and shivering. He presses his cheek into the cool leather of the couch and tries not to cry.
“You said I was nothing.” His voice cracks. “You didn’t want that guy to know anything about me.”
All of a sudden, Eames’s arms are around him, pulling him close. It’s reflex for Arthur to bury his head in the crook of Eames’s neck. The tears come then, making a mess of his face and Eames’s neck and the tee-shirt Eames had put on for bed. He cries for what felt like hours - angry at his mom, and Eames, and mostly himself. Eames never stops stroking his back or kissing his drying hair. Finally, Arthur’s chest stops heaving long enough for him to take a few deep breaths and pull his head up off of Eames’s shoulder.
With a sigh, Arthur wipes ineffectually at the remaining tears in his eyes, unable to make eye contact. “Sorry. I know you probably weren’t planning on having to take care of an overly emotional teenager tonight.”
“Arthur, look at me.” Eames holds Arthur’s chin and gently tilts his head so that Arthur has to meet his gaze. “I was wrong to say that. I just…Robert doesn’t deserve to know you.”
He can’t cry anymore, so Arthur tries for a laugh, but it comes out as a choked hiccup. He knows, somewhere in the back of his head, that he has to look terrible; he hasn’t cried this hard since he was eight and his face had been red and splotchy for days, but all he could really concentrate on is the brush of Eames’s thumb across his cheek.
“Can I kiss you?” Eames asks. He’s so quiet that Arthur could barely hear him over the sound of his own breathing.
“Yeah,” Arthur whispers, gaze fixating on Eames’s mouth.
It’s nothing and everything like he remembers. Eames’s lips are just as plush, but dry, and when Arthur opens his mouth, Eames’s tongue swipes leisurely across Arthur’s, missing the urgency of their former kisses. It makes him curl his fingers into Eames’s shirt to hold himself steady so that he can unfurl his cramping legs and straddle Eames’s lap. A strong arm wraps around him, pulling him flush against Eames’s warm chest. Arthur weaves his fingers through the short crop of Eames’s hair, and he can feel Eames hum into his mouth. Just as Arthur’s tongue becomes more insistent, hips rocking expectantly, Eames pulls away.
He rests their foreheads together, eyes closed and breathing heavily. Arthur can’t help the downward twitch of his mouth. Opening his eyes, Eames smiles and kisses the corner of Arthur’s scowl.
“You need to call your mom and let her know you’re all right. I bet she’s having kittens wondering where you are.”
Arthur can’t bring himself to move, running his hands over Eames’s shoulders and arms. “And then what?”
Cocking an eyebrow at him, Eames puts on what Arthur knows is his very serious face. “And then we go to bed. To sleep.”
Carefully, Eames extracts himself from Arthur’s grip and gathers up their empty tea mugs. With a sigh, Arthur shoves himself to his feet and retrieves his phone from his jacket pocket. Eames is right - he has eight missed calls and three voicemails.
Taking a deep breath, he hits the call button.
--------
When Arthur wakes up, he’s in the comforting cradle of Eames body, wearing one of Eames’s old tee-shirts, and sleeping in Eames’s bed. He buries his face in the pillow, breathing deeply, trying to store away the smell of it forever.
“Good morning,” Eames says, voice low and raspy with sleep.
Embarrassed, Arthur freezes. “Morning.”
An arm snakes around his waist, holding him snugly against Eames’s body. “Arthur, we need to talk about this.”
The familiar nausea hits him like a freight train. ‘Talks’ in Arthur’s experience, typically ended with ‘it’s not your fault’, or ‘it won’t be that bad’, or ‘I wish you would make an effort’. He wants to leave before any of that happens, but he can’t, Eames is holding him still. So he doesn’t move and doesn’t say anything.
“Okay then, if you don’t want to talk, please listen to me.” Eames shifts his arm to make himself more comfortable, but keeps his hold on Arthur just as tight. “And I don’t know how much you’re going to like what I have to say.”
Arthur squirms a little, jaw clenched.
“Dating Robert was easy, at first. He wasn’t an artist, but his dad was a filthy rich patron of several art galleries around Sydney. He understood that art was my life; he loved that I loved it. But he was always a bit of an arrogant prick. He didn’t know how to apologize, for one. Didn’t like being told he was wrong.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because I loved him anyway.” Eames presses a kiss to Arthur’s shoulder. “And then I walked in on him and his economics professor in flagrante delicto, and that was pretty much the end of it. Two years together, just…gone, worthless.”
Something in Eames’s voice, an earnestness, a vulnerability, loosens the knot in Arthur’s stomach. He reaches for Eames’s hand and squeezes, and then rolls over so that he can look Eames in the eye.
“You still love him,” Arthur says, face carefully composed.
Eames smiles, a sad twitch of the lips. “Probably. It’s hard for me to let go.”
“I don’t want to be the reason you two don’t work things out. I can go away.”
“If I asked you to, you really would, wouldn’t you?” Eames asks, but doesn’t wait for an answer, cupping Arthur’s face and kissing him tenderly.
Arthur desperately wants to pull Eames close and kiss him until they forget about everything else, and they’re too hot for clothes, and it’s nothing but mouths and skin and more, but even more than that he needs to know what Eames wants from him. Reluctantly, he pulls back, unable to keep the concern from his eyes.
It’s as if Eames had suddenly become telepathic, the way he runs a hand through Arthur’s hair soothingly. “I’m not asking for that.” He continues, “I have to ask though, do you really want to try this with someone fucked in the head like me?”
Try this. Try this. A giddy spike of adrenaline makes Arthur’s heart pound wildly, but he tries not to look too eager when he nods his head. “Yeah, I do.”
When Eames grins at him this time, the corners of his eyes crinkling, Arthur can’t help but smile back, dimples showing. He lets himself get dragged back into a kiss, lets himself take what he wants, nipping at Eames’s lips and licking into his mouth. Eames groans, hand drifting down to stroke across the waistband of Arthur’s boxers.
Arthur’s phone chooses that moment to vibrate, rattling across the nightstand and falling onto the floor.
“Fuck,” Eames breathes against Arthur’s mouth. “I need to get you home.”
“It can wait,” Arthur murmurs, hooking a leg over one of Eames’s, finding a better angle for the press of hips against thigh.
“No, god, Arthur.” Eames’s whole body jerks as Arthur snakes a hand between them to stroke teasingly at his erection. Breathing hard, Eames gently pries Arthur’s fingers off him. “As much as I want to return you looking like I just fucked you into oblivion, I really don’t think your mother would particularly appreciate it.”
He flops onto his back like he has to physically restrain himself from touching Arthur. Rolling onto his stomach, Arthur lets the pillow muffle his groan of frustration. The press of the mattress on his erection is good but not what he wants, not with Eames right there.
“I fucking hate you sometimes.”
“What was that, darling? I couldn’t hear you over all the maturity you’re exuding.”
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When Eames pulls up in front of Arthur’s house, letting the engine idle, it feels like Arthur’s being woken up from a truly excellent dream by the loud blaring of his alarm clock.
Staring out the windshield, Arthur tries to imagine what comes next. There’s fresh snow all over his sidewalk so he knows that as soon as he’s apologized properly to his mom he’s going to be paying his penance by shoveling it. He knows he’s not going to be able to spend the night with Eames until he’s practically forty. He knows he’s just a stupid high school kid, and that Eames will get tired of having to chauffeur him around. He knows that he wants too much from a man with his own life.
“Hey,” Eames says. Arthur blinks, coming back to himself. Eames is studying him closely. “It’ll be okay, I promise.”
“You can’t promise that.”
“Sure I can,” Eames replies, confident enough for both of them.
Unbuckling his seatbelt, Arthur practically launches himself over the gear shift, attacking Eames’s mouth with his own. It was hot with their coats on, and within seconds his torso starts to protest at the odd twist of his body, but Arthur ignores it. Eames gives as good as he gets, and Arthur is forced to break away before he gets hard again.
“I’m probably going to be grounded for life, so I just needed…” Arthur trails off, not quite sure where he was going with that statment and finding it hard to look at Eames.
Eames lets his head thunk against the headrest before giving Arthur a blatant once over. “Well, call me then, if you find yourself needing again.”
“Pervert.” Arthur shoves his shoulder, opening the door just a crack.
“Oh, and I suppose the only thing you appreciate about me is my acerbic wit?”
“You think you’re fucking clever, don’t you?” Getting out of the car makes the outside world even brighter. Ducking his head, Arthur peers back through the open door. “So Ariadne gets back from Florida tomorrow. I thought, maybe, if you wanted to and I’m still alive, we could get dinner or go to a movie or something together?”
For a minute, Eames doesn’t react at all, and Arthur’s heart stutters. But then a lazy grin spreads across Eames’s face, and he nods. “I’d like that.”
“Cool. I’ll call you.”
It’s too white and too cold and too windy on the quick walk up the driveway and he knows his mother is going to shout at him again, like she did on the phone last night, but Arthur can’t stop smiling anyway.
On to Chapter 6