Gunpowder, Gelatine [Rough Trade]
Title: Gunpowder, Gelatine [Rough Trade verse]
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~15,300
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Vague homophobia, rough sex (borderline dubcon but not really)/some breathplay, the boys being mean to each other
Author's Note: It seems everyone wants more Rough Trade! I was more than happy to revisit my favourite verse and actually flesh it out a little more. :D Additional codas are here, here, and here. Those aren't required reading, but you'll probably want to be familiar with Rough Trade. This one is all Eames' pov and it time warps a bit, so be mindful of that. Broken into two parts because how did this get so long? (Part two is here.) ps. If you catch any typos, you are clearly more awake than I am.
pps. I started writing this when I was in New York a couple weeks ago so it's partly a love letter to my favourite city.
ppps. lolol why yes the title is from Killer Queen why do you ask
December
Eames is leaving Yusuf's place when he spots Arthur across the street, accompanied by a petite brunette. How about that-it's a small island after all.
He doesn't mean to follow them. It just happens that they're heading downtown, the same direction as him, and eventually he walks right past his subway stop and slips across the street to keep them in sight. What is Arthur doing with her? It's a Monday night. And that's definitely Arthur. Straitlaced, besuited Arthur, who last Thursday was face-down and naked in Eames' bed, groaning through his teeth while Eames dug bruising marks into his hips and fucked him.
Eames wonders if the bruises are still there, wrapped up under Arthur's lovely clothes.
They go into a restaurant. It's a nice place, sort of a bistro, with a brunch section on the menu, but there's a bar at one end. Eames takes a seat there at the bar, in an ideal position: Arthur, seated at a little candle-lit table behind him, has his back to Eames. Eames orders a drink and settles in. He's got nothing better to do tonight.
He soon deduces that this is a first date, based on the conversation. The brunette's name is Ariadne and she seems sweet. She's Canadian, is fresh out of business school, and has two cats at home. She's fascinated by Arthur and keeps peppering him with questions about his job. Clever girl, Eames thinks. Brand-new to Manhattan and already networking.
Arthur, in turn, is ... not Arthur. At least, he's not the caustic, hypertense Arthur that Eames has known for about six weeks now. There's a smile evident in his voice. He answers her questions patiently and listens when she talks about herself. He's quiet and polite and-it hits Eames like a blow to the head-himself. This is Arthur when he's not brimming with self-hate. This is the persona he takes to work and drags home and this is the mental place he's in when he watches television and brushes his teeth and does other mundane Arthur things. This is Arthur, talking to this girl, telling her about his Los Angeles upbringing and how he taught his little brother to surf, and when he was fifteen he hit his head so badly on a submerged rock that he cracked his skull and quit surfing for good while his brother went on to do it competitively and give lessons to tourists in Australia on top of his day job. He half laughs about it, like he thinks his brother is stupid for doing this after Arthur's accident, but there's something of a quiet admiration there that Eames has never heard before. Ariadne says what Eames is thinking: that she can't picture Arthur on a surfboard.
Arthur is silent for a moment. Then he says, “I found more important things to do.”
Like what? Eames wants to say. But Ariadne doesn't ask.
Toward the end of the meal, Ariadne says, “Do you want to go back to my place? I'll show you what I mean about the heater, maybe you can do something,” and Eames can't listen to any more of this. He settles his tab and leaves through the side door onto the street corner, where he lights a cigarette and reflects on what he's learned.
He hears Arthur's voice several minutes later. They've left the restaurant. They're coming closer; Eames resolutely doesn't move. Then he hears Arthur say, “You catch a cab, I'll just be a second.”
And then he hears, “Eames.”
Eames knows why he's doing this. It's so that he can control the situation. Otherwise, Eames might walk up to him and that would be more than Arthur can handle, in front of his date; so he's acting, playing at being friendly so that he can keep Eames away. Eames turns to him, looks him up and down slowly.
“On a date?” he says.
Arthur glances back at Ariadne to make sure she's out of earshot. He turns back to Eames, aloof. “That's not really your business.”
“Since I've been fucking you for over a month now, I'd say it's my business,” says Eames. “And hers, too.”
Arthur takes a step back, eyes narrowing. “Are you-jealous?”
“Not at all.” Eames drags in a lungful of smoke, and smiles expansively. “Have a nice date, Arthur. I hope you have lots and lots of sex. And I hope she doesn't mind when you start calling out my name in bed.”
Arthur snaps at this. All at once he's far too close, grabbing the front of Eames' coat so that he can't escape. They're just about of a height, so that Arthur can glare directly into Eames' eyes from just a couple inches away.
“Get this through your fucking head,” he enunciates slowly and softly, so that nobody else can hear. “You and me? Are nothing.”
He releases Eames' coat and plucks the cigarette out of his slack mouth, then flicks it over Eames' shoulder and into the slushy gutter.
“See you on Thursday, Eames,” he says coldly, and with that, he turns and walks back to Ariadne. Eames just stands there, watches them get into a cab and disappear.
&
On Thursday, Eames has Arthur naked and reverse-straddling his lap in short time. He has no objection to fucking Arthur from behind, as it means he gets to watch himself sink into Arthur's tight clenching hole. He can't see as well from this angle, though, and he's only sunk in halfway before he pulls out again, ignoring Arthur's choked sound of need, and urges him up onto his knees. Arthur goes blindly. His arms are stretched in front of him, palms splayed against the wall.
“That's better,” Eames says, pulling Arthur's cheeks apart and pushing the head of his cock back in. Arthur grunts on the long relentless slide in, gritting out a little ah, fuck, probably clenching his eyes shut and trying to pretend he's anywhere other than Eames' bed, legs spread over Eames' thighs, being fucked in the ass by another man.
Eames reaches up impatiently and shoves two fingers into Arthur's mouth, dragging them over his tongue, wanting to bring him back to reality. Arthur bites, disgusted, trying to get rid of Eames' fingers, but he sags and moans when Eames stops taking it slow and starts snapping his hips hard.
His fingers spit-slick, Eames removes them and brings them to the space where he and Arthur are joined. Without breaking stride, he traces Arthur's stretched hole, rubbing, hinting at the threat of dipping inside.
“Feel that,” he says roughly, more throatily than he means to. “Where I'm fucking you. Feel it, Arthur?”
“Fuck.” Arthur's small voice cracks weakly.
“Do you feel where I'm fucking you with my cock? You should; you love it.” He leans down and bites Arthur's neck hard, making Arthur writhe under him in an effort to get away from his teeth. Eames shifts his knees, changing the angle, and starts pounding in even harder, as hard as he can. He wants to hurt Arthur. He wants to hurt everything, and here Arthur is, asking to be hurt. Eames hates him, hates everything about him, hates how effortlessly good-looking he is and the nice clothes he wears and the no-doubt luxurious flat he owns and the way he looks down on Eames as if these things somehow make him better.
You queer piece of shit, Eames thinks heatedly, and when Arthur's shoulders flinch as if a lash has fallen across them, he realizes he said it out loud. He falters.
“Don't stop,” Arthur grates out, hating him right back, his voice low and sex-rough.
He shoves right back when Eames starts fucking him again, pushes with his shoulders, angry, like it's a fight, until Eames has to hold him down, cage him in completely with his body so that Arthur can't squirm away.
“Just take it,” Eames pants, his chest flat to Arthur's back so he can feel Arthur's every quivering muscle, chin almost resting on Arthur's shoulder. Arthur twists his head aside. “Did you fuck that pretty girl the other night like this, Arthur?”
“Fuck you,” Arthur spits out.
“Did you think about me while you did it?” Eames' voice, already low and raspy, goes even lower. He wraps one arm around Arthur's waist and palms his cock, unsurprised to find it straining up against Arthur's belly. Arthur makes a wheezing, snarling sound, tries to buck him off again, but has to melt into the touch when he can't. “I've got you,” Eames says.
Arthur tilts his head even further so that Eames can see no part of his face, and chokes out something that sounds like hate you.
“Did you think about this while you were fucking her?” Eames demands. “When you were inside her, did you think about how much you love it when I'm inside you? You had to, didn't you? This is the only thing that gets you hot anymore, being fucked like this. Like you're worthless. I'm the only one who can give this to you.”
“I fucking hate you,” Arthur forces out harshly, louder this time.
“Is that right,” Eames says, and he flicks his wrist and drags Arthur's orgasm out of him. Arthur's spine snaps taut as a bow, the whole length of his body trembling against Eames, short staccato noises being wrenched out of him loudly as if Eames is killing him. Maybe he is.
He sags into Eames' arm after that, gasping and writhing when Eames goes on stroking him, until Eames comes, too, stars bursting in front of his eyes. It's the best sex of his life, this; it's mad and it's violent and he's never had anything like it. He'd never come so hard in his life till he met Arthur and learned the thrill of pinning his quarry down and fucking like animals.
But it's over now, they're both coming back down, easing apart, shaken and bruised and reeling at whatever-the-hell they just did. Arthur sinks delicately down onto the mattress and Eames just dumps face-first at his side, lacking the energy to even roll over or move out of the wet spot. There's never been an afterglow like this, he thinks. If he can pretend Arthur isn't here, it's blissful.
Usually Arthur catches his breath, restores his basic faculties, and leaves as fast as he can. This time, when they can both breathe again like they haven't just run a marathon, Arthur tilts his head and looks across at Eames.
“I didn't, you know,” he says quietly.
Eames looks at him. His eyes are wet, his hair dishevelled, his cheeks still splotchily flushed. He looks fucked.
“You didn't what?”
“Fuck her,” says Arthur. “We didn't have sex.”
Eames reaches over and pushes a strand of hair off of Arthur's face. It's a small gesture that makes Arthur look as lost and bewildered as a child.
&
March
Eames surprises Arthur one Saturday morning by showing up on his doorstep. Arthur looks almost criminally adorable in his rumpled pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt, hair all damp and askew, when he answers Eames' knock. He squints accusingly.
“It's ten o'clock.”
“I know,” says Eames.
“I'm not-” He stops, glancing around the hallway as if he thinks his neighbours will have their doors ajar, ears pressed eagerly to the cracks so they can hear. He lowers his voice. “I'm not letting you fuck me at ten o'clock. I just showered.”
“I'm not here for that.”
Arthur looks deeply suspicious. He lets Eames in, though.
“You didn't text,” he says, folding his arms over his chest accusingly when the door is shut. He seems a touch more relaxed now, though, safe and hidden in his apartment. “What if I'd had someone over?”
“Obviously,” says Eames, “I'd have torn your clothes off and started shagging you on the threshold.”
A smile tugs at Arthur's lips. “Obviously,” he says dryly.
Now that they're alone, Eames is free to lean in and press a kiss to Arthur's mouth. He feels Arthur drop his hands to his sides; then he raises them to Eames' face and leans into the kiss. He tastes of bitter coffee.
“Did you sleep?” Eames asks, drawing back.
“A little,” says Arthur, and now Eames can see the dark circles under his eyes, belying their brightness. “Better than nothing.” He clears his throat. “We can-if you want to fuck, I mean. I don't have plans.”
Eames can't help but smile. “That's very sporting of you, Arthur, but actually I wanted to ask if you'd like to go for a walk with me.”
It's comical, how confused this request seems to leave Arthur. “A walk?”
“Yes, a walk. In Central Park. It's really warm and sunny today, it's lovely.”
“I ...” Arthur looks as though he'd rather Eames just fuck him. “We agreed. This doesn't-”
“Leave the apartment,” Eames says impatiently, “I know. I'm not asking you to start making out with me in public, Arthur. It's just a walk.”
Arthur sighs, picking distractedly at his shirt. “I guess I have to change,” he says finally.
Eames smiles fondly again. “Yes.”
He changes into neatly-pressed slacks and a red turtleneck to go under his double-breasted black coat. All of Arthur's outfits look impeccably nice on him, but Eames likes his wrinkled, faded sleep-clothes best. He's not sure Arthur even owns a pair of jeans.
“Do we have to walk to the park?” Arthur asks, when they're on the sidewalk outside.
Eames grins. “Walking's good for you.”
“Inhaling smog and car exhaust is good for me?” Arthur says skeptically, but he doesn't try to flag a cab.
Eames thinks Arthur's opinion of New York is unfair. Certainly when he, Eames, had first arrived in the city, he had expected soot and pigeons to line every street. But it's trees, not trash, that adorn every sidewalk; in the summer there are flowerbeds outside the buildings rather than dumpsters, and he has yet to meet a single cockroach. There are some inoffensive little pillbug-like insects he shares his tiny flat with, but no roaches. And though he's spied a couple of rats, he's never seen one claw its way out of a toilet. With all its old architecture and fascinating inhabitants, Eames truly does think New York is beautiful.
Arthur glares at the city as if it's personally offended him. He's a typical New Yorker, charging right onto the street even when the 'Don't Walk' sign is lit up, stopping several feet away from the curb and waiting there impatiently while cars whip past him mere inches away, or crossing without even a glance in either direction when there is no traffic. Eames has to hurry to keep up. Noticing, Arthur slows down just a bit.
This is the inspiration for a conversation about what the mark of a true New Yorker is. Eames thinks it's how readily one plunges into traffic regardless of what the light says; Arthur disagrees and says scornfully that even tourists jaywalk; the true mark is how un-self-consciously one eats alone in a restaurant, and for bonus points, whether they flinch when a bird flies at them. This last one makes Eames laugh, because it's true. Arthur doesn't budge when pigeons flap past his face and he's as New York as it gets-even if he wasn't born here.
It all helps to prove Eames' theory correct: The thing about Arthur is that on his territory he's cagey and guarded, and on Eames' he's defensive and prickly. Sometimes, when he forgets where he is, he's none of those things. Eames wants to get him on neutral ground, and so far it's working. Arthur is relaxing. Only strangers walk past them, and none of them spare a glance for two men walking side by side.
It isn't long before they reach Central Park West, the street that runs parallel to the park, and they stroll alongside the fence with bare trees and sheer rocks dominating the view on one side and yellow taxis streaming past on the other. It's one of the funny little juxtapositions that Eames so loves about New York. When they walk past 85th St., he points to one of the buildings across the street from them.
“My older sister lives there.”
“Really?” Arthur looks intrigued. He twists around to look at the building. “What does she do?”
“She's an actress. Has a steady gig on a soap opera.” Eames lived with her for awhile when he'd first landed in New York, but as big as her apartment is, it hadn't worked. Her boyfriend had recently moved in, and Eames had been ruining the whole honeymoon phase with his depression and drugs and bad temper. Amy's got a lot of patience when it comes to him, but only to a point.
Arthur is still looking at the building, probably calculating how much rent would cost, and something compels Eames to say, “That's all you respect, isn't it? How much money a person makes?”
Arthur turns his head from the building to look at Eames. “No,” he says.
“Right,” Eames scoffs quietly.
Arthur wipes his face of emotion and stares coolly ahead. It was a stupid thing to say and Eames is already wishing he'd just kept it to himself, but sometimes he really hates Arthur's attitude about money. If Eames were a computer programmer making six figures every year, then, he thinks, maybe Arthur wouldn't be so hesitant to be seen with him. Even if he finds a full-time job, he's never going to make a lot of money. He knows and accepts that. Some part of Arthur will always look down on him. It would make anyone resentful.
He wisely shuts up, but the air between them is chilly until they reach an entrance and turn into the park. It seems everyone is taking advantage of the warm weather: Dog-walkers stroll past them; tourists consult maps; vendors sell deep-fried peanuts (Arthur regards these with grave suspicion). Eames tells him to wait and jogs over to one of the vendors. He returns with two salted pretzels and lemonades.
“Pretzels?” says Arthur, taking his gingerly.
“I thought we'd make a picnic of it,” says Eames.
“Some picnic.” But Arthur tears a small bite off of his and chews it slowly. It doesn't seem to offend him too badly, because he takes another nibble. Arthur's probably never bought food from a street vendor in his life. Eames grins.
“Look at you, slumming it like us common folk.”
Arthur swallows his little bite of pretzel and says, “I know you think of me as some kind of Little Lord Fauntleroy, but that isn't actually the case.”
“I'm just teasing you, Arthur.”
“I know. You do it often enough.” Arthur squints when they walk past a grassy field full of people and their children, and mutters, “God, I hope my boss isn't out with his kids today.”
“So what if he is?” Eames asks. “What if he sees you?”
Arthur shrugs and looks away like he always does when this comes up. “I don't know. That's why it can't happen.”
“What,” Eames says impatiently, “he'd spot you and just assume you're out for a stroll with your male lover?”
“Yeah, because you really look like my lawyer,” Arthur bites back. “And keep your voice down.”
“Why?” Eames says, louder. “Are you worried the strangers will judge you for being queer in public, Arthur?”
“Eames,” Arthur says warningly.
Eames suddenly turns, yanking Arthur around to face him, and crushes their mouths together. Arthur's mouth falls open slightly, reflexively, and Eames shoves his tongue in, clasping Arthur's neck with his free hand so he can't turn his head aside. It gives him a little thrill when Arthur just stands there and lets himself be kissed, wetly and messily, in front of all these people. The few other pedestrians on the path just walk around them without even slowing down, but a couple of teenage girls on a nearby bench yell, “Whoo!” and someone wolf-whistles.
Eames finally lets go when he has to breathe. Arthur stands there, rooted to the spot, catching his breath. His whole body is rigid; his lips are an attractive red.
“Well?” Eames says, satisfied. “Nothing happened.”
He notices Arthur's shaking hands at about the same moment Arthur fixes him with a look so furiously cold it makes Eames' insides freeze for a second.
“Never,” Arthur says, with a quiet simmer to the words, “do that again.”
Neither of them move. Pedestrians continue to filter past them. Eames feel a twinge of misgiving and he waits, uncertainly, for Arthur to turn around and start walking home.
Instead, Arthur starts walking again. He wraps up the pretzel and shoves it into his coat pocket, and keeps his head down, but he doesn't say anything when Eames catches him up and falls into step beside him again.
“I can't believe you did that,” Arthur says in the same low voice when several minutes have gone by, not looking at him.
“I'm sorry,” says Eames quietly. And he is. However irrational he thinks Arthur's feelings are, it doesn't make them any less real. And what does he know, anyway? Maybe being found out really would have calamitous consequences for Arthur's career. He doubts it, but he doesn't live in Arthur's world, after all. Arthur's the one who will have to deal with any repercussions. Just, sometimes-
Sometimes it just feels a bit too cramped for two people in Arthur's closet.
Arthur huffs out a short sigh, shaking his head. “Can we sit down somewhere?”
Eames leads him off the path, over a little hillock to a shaded area where they can't be seen. Arthur drops onto the grass gratefully, pulls out his pretzel and starts nibbling it again.
“Nice picnic,” he says, and Eames recognizes this as a tentative olive branch.
“I'm glad you think so.” Eames gives him one of the lemonades. Arthur eyes it mistrustfully and, with a frown, starts reading the ingredients. Eames chuckles. “I can tell you the ingredients, Arthur, it's all sugar and food dye.”
“That's what I thought,” Arthur says. He uncaps it and takes a sip, pulling a face and grousing, “Ugh. It's so sweet.” But he keeps drinking it.
Eames laughs again. “Have you even had anything to eat today?”
“I had a banana,” says Arthur defensively. “Bananas are good for you.”
“Not if you live off them and Chinese take-out.”
“Ugh,” Arthur says again, giving up on the lemonade. He lies down on his back and closes his eyes against the sun. Occasionally he lifts the pretzel and bites off a piece until it's gone; then he sighs and folds his hands on his stomach.
Eames smiles and starts eating his own pretzel, watching the section of path he can see from his vantage point. From here, one could almost forget they were in a city at all.
For a few minutes they're quiet; then Eames says “Hey,” an idea striking him. “We should go to the Natural History Museum. It's not far from here.”
Arthur doesn't answer. His brow has lost its little grumpy furrow; he looks at ease and relaxed in the grass. Eames snorts.
“Are you asleep already? I haven't even got your trousers off yet.”
It's a bit of a mean joke, a reference to the two-odd occasions when Arthur has fallen asleep during sex, but when he doesn't respond to that Eames realizes he actually has fallen asleep. He smiles. Good for Arthur. Uncapping his lemonade, he stretches out and gets comfy. He'll probably be sitting here for awhile.
It's only been about twenty minutes, however, when the peace is disrupted by a buzzing in Arthur's pocket. Arthur jumps awake like he's been shocked.
“What?” he says, looking around blearily. The phone buzzes again. Arthur's eyes widen and he grabs it quickly. “I have to, sorry,” he says to Eames; and to the phone, “What is it?”
And then, “Oh, fuck.”
And, “Are you kidding me?”
He gets to his feet, brushing dead grass off his trousers, and wanders away a short distance, so that Eames can't hear what he's saying but can hear the way his voice rises unhappily, and he's not stupid. He knows what it all means.
When Arthur comes back, phone dangling from his hand, Eames says, “You have to work.”
“Yeah.” Arthur rubs at his face, grinding his knuckles into the bridge of his nose. “Shit. I'm sorry.”
“Well, tell them to go fuck themselves,” Eames says, suddenly angry. “How much sleep have you gotten lately?”
Arthur just looks at him tiredly. “What's the fastest way out of here?”
“Come on,” Eames mutters, not bothering to argue anymore. Even if Arthur had the option of refusing to work, he wouldn't. He's like a manic Border collie. When he's overworked he's exhausted and only able to think about the next load of work; but when there's no work, he goes off his little head. Tomorrow, he'll be even more tired and grouchy-if he bothers to connect with Eames at all.
Eames leads him out of the park, and Arthur says a short “See you” and bounds off the curb to flag a taxi, heedless again of the cars that blow past him a foot away. One of them stops; he gets in and it drives off promptly.
Some picnic, Eames thinks sourly, kicking at a pebble. It disturbs a pigeon, which takes off and flaps directly for his face, making him flinch back. In that moment he's never felt so stupidly out of place and alone in New York.
&
January
“Yusuf says you're seeing someone,” says Amy, almost crows it, in fact. Eames frowns. It's New Year's Day and his sister invited him over for a glass of wine; he didn't realize this would be an interrogation.
“Since when do you talk to Yusuf?”
“Facebook,” she says. “So?”
“So it's nothing,” says Eames. “He's an investment banker with a heap of baggage. I meet him once a week and we have excellent, no-strings-attached sex.”
“No strings attached?” His sister raises an eyebrow. Abruptly Eames loses patience.
“I'm not looking for a relationship.”
“I know you aren't.”
“He's the most closeted gay I've ever met in my life. He'd never let this become anything but sex.”
“I know,” says Amy. “That's what worries me. I don't know, but it sounds like this guy could hurt you.”
“He won't,” says Eames flatly. “I don't want anything from him. I don't want anything from anyone.”
“I know what you've been through,” Amy starts, carefully, and Eames snaps:
“No. You don't.”
Amy doesn't say anything for a minute. When she finally does speak, her voice is soft.
“I'm sorry about what happened with Henri.”
“I'm not.” The words sound jagged and callous, roughened in his throat. “I'm just sorry he fooled me for so long.”
“They're not all like that, you know,” Amy says gently. “There are a lot of gay guys in Manhattan. You could find somebody who'd be good for you.”
“Henri was good for me. Didn't stop him from fucking another man while I was at school. He didn't even tell me-d'you know how I found out? I found his fucking HIV-positive test results. We were together for seven years.”
“I know,” Amy says again. “And I know you don't just get over something like that. But you can't run yourself into the ground trying to forget about it.”
“I'm fine,” Eames says bluntly. “You're a bit late to clean me up; Yusuf's done that already. I'm working again, even.”
“And you're having sex with some guy who hates you.”
“He asked me to fuck him without a condom,” Eames says impulsively. “He didn't even ask if I was clean. It made me crazy at first. I wondered if he was just stupid, but then I realized-he didn't want to know. He'd have thought that was perfect, probably, picking up AIDS or something from me. It would have been the perfect punishment for him. He's that self-destructive, he thinks he deserves HIV just for letting himself be with a man ...”
“You didn't do it, I hope,” says Amy.
“No,” Eames lies. Arthur had showed him his latest clean bill of health shortly after, though Eames hadn't asked, and they'd already done it anyway. Maybe Eames has a self-destructive streak, too. “I'm just saying-what if he tried that with the wrong guy?”
“Oh,” says Amy wryly, “I see.”
Her knowing tone irritates him. “See what?”
“You like him.”
“I can't stand him,” says Eames. “He's a nasty little weasel and he hates me. There's nothing to like.”
“And you like him anyway,” says Amy. “You see why I worry?”
Eames can't say what he thinks, which is that he only got into this because he was hurting and he needed to hurt someone else and Arthur was right there asking for it. He wanted to hurt Arthur and now, knowing how impossibly fucked-up he is, Eames just wants to-help him. He lies to himself, says that's not why he's still doing this, still putting up with Arthur; but if he left, where would Arthur be in a year? Every now and then Arthur reveals just how vulnerable he is-or he lets himself slip and says something to make Eames think he could actually be likeable if he wanted to be-and Eames wants to guard him jealously, because there are men out there who'd eat Arthur up and spit him out in a heartbeat. Maybe Eames wanted to be that man at first, but it's not what Arthur deserves, even if he thinks it is. He sort of understands Arthur now. He refuses to partake in that fantasy anymore, that he's only around to punish Arthur for being attracted to him. If Arthur keeps coming back to him, Eames will keep him safe-for as long as he can keep this up, anyway.
All things considered, Amy is right to worry. It doesn't mean he appreciates it.
They both hear her boyfriend arrive home and Eames drains his wine glass and gets to his feet. “This is why Trisha's my favourite sister,” he tells her. Amy smiles.
“Just be careful,” she says.
But Eames is already being careful. After spending last year in a miserable, brokenhearted fog, he finally cares again.
He just can't admit it.
&
April
He gets one over on Arthur once, and it's delicious.
Arthur's in Utah on business, not due back till the next day, and Eames takes shameless advantage of this to hang out in his apartment as much as possible. It's so much nicer and bigger and better-smelling than Eames' building. And the windows have actual views, versus Eames' single grubby pane which looks across a span of several feet to a wall of dirty brick. May as well not have a window at all.
He has a couple drinks with his sister and then, since he's on the Upper West Side anyway, he decides he may as well spend the last night at Arthur's place. He takes the train, and once at Arthur's place he has to punch in the code to open the wrought-iron gate, then unlock the front door with one of two keys, slip past the doorman (who knows him by sight now) and head up the elevator to the 24th floor, and at last unlock Arthur's door with the other key. He eases the door shut behind him quietly, because it's a heavy door and it's two o'clock in the morning. Then he realizes there's a light on in the living room.
He slips off his shoes noiselessly and creeps forward. He knows how to fight. He's prepared to defend Arthur's flat.
But curled up on the couch, with his back against the armrest and a laptop resting on his thighs, is Arthur himself. Eames pulls up short, watching him for a minute. Arthur, facing the far wall, doesn't appear to see him. He's got headphones on and, amazingly, a pair of jeans. Nice jeans, but jeans. He's chewing his lip, brow furrowed, and as Eames watches he smooths a hand down over his groin, pressing the heel of his palm down and taking in a slow breath.
Eames circles wide around him until he's at Arthur's back and able to look over his shoulder. It takes him a second to register that what he's seeing, on Arthur's computer screen, is gay porn. He presses a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing aloud, because this seems very funny with a few drinks in him. And it's definitely-two men, both very athletic-looking, one vigorously pounding the other's ass and giving it the occasional hard slap. It looks hard, anyway; Eames can't hear anything from Arthur's headphones.
He stands there for a couple minutes, unsure how to proceed. He could slip off to the bedroom and claim he'd been there all along. But probably Arthur's already dumped his luggage in there, and it would be much more fun to catch him in flagrante delicto. The thing is, though, Arthur's not jerking off. Not even when Eames has been standing there for a while. He keeps his hand over the crotch of his jeans, occasionally kneading a bit, but he doesn't touch himself. It's maddening, especially since Eames is getting so hot and bothered behind him.
Eventually he just goes for the most direct option. He leans down, pulls one of Arthur's headphones away from his ear, and says, “Sorry, am I supposed to spank you like that?”
Arthur's reaction is even better than he could have hoped for. It's electric-he leaps up, twisting to scramble to his feet at the same time, so that he sends the laptop flying. Instantly he pounces on it where it lands on the floor, snapping it shut, and throws the headphones away from him.
“Eames!” he says hoarsely. He looks like he's able to yell, but then he lowers his head and puts his face in his hands, taking a deep breath. Eames wonders fleetingly if he's about to cry. Then he straightens up again and says weakly, “You almost gave me a heart attack, asshole!”
“Sorry,” says Eames, grinning, not really sorry at all now that it appears Arthur's okay. “I was enjoying the show.”
Arthur's ears turn pink. “Fuck off.”
“It's just porn, Arthur. We all watch porn.”
“Well,” says Arthur, picking up the laptop off the floor, “I don't.”
“Bollocks.”
“I mean ...” Arthur pauses, drags a hand over his face again, and sighs. “Not gay porn,” he says at last, exquisitely embarrassed-practically squirming with it. “I just-I got home early and I couldn't sleep, and I couldn't jerk off, so I was ... curious.”
His face is red, too, now. He flicks a belligerant glance Eames' way, daring him to make something of this. Eames raises his eyebrows.
“You've never wanked off to gay porn before,” he says skeptically.
In answer, Arthur opens the laptop again. The video is paused. He minimizes it, then pulls up a folder, types in a password, and swivels it to face Eames. It's a folder full of downloaded porn flicks, naturally, not a lot but a tidy little collection; and it's all straight porn. Straight, except for the lonely little gay flick at the bottom.
“You're joking,” says Eames. Arthur shakes his head. “You're telling me that when you thought you'd maybe like to give being gay a try, you started by picking up someone who'd fuck you? You didn't indulge your curiosity a little? Light some candles, run a bubble bath, explore your burgeoning sexuality?”
Arthur snaps the laptop shut and says, in a voice that's suddenly rough like he's swallowed broken glass, “I didn't want to like it.”
“Oh,” says Eames. He hesitates. “Didn't you?”
“No,” Arthur says dully. “I just hated myself enough to do it again.” He drags a hand through his hair, looking tired and unhappy. “I hated it till I met you.”
Eames preens a bit at that, but only until Arthur gives a low, shaky laugh and said, “I still don't want to like it. I like being with you, Eames, really, I do, but this is ruining my life.”
Every once in awhile Eames gains a flash of insight into Arthur's life and gets it, for that one moment. For a second he sees how Arthur is so stressed-out that he can't eat regularly or sleep at night unless Eames is there to help him relax; and on the same hand, he can see how keeping this secret is even more stressful, leaving him even more wound-up, chasing him right back to Eames every time. Eames realizes he could be offended by what Arthur's just said, but he looks so visibly tortured that it sort of breaks Eames' heart for a second.
“Well,” he says, after a pause, “at least don't be watching that rubbish. Watch something good if you're going to get into gay porn.”
Arthur cracks a smile. Eames flops onto the couch, taking up the same position Arthur was in before; back to the armrest, legs stretched out. He pats the space between his legs and Arthur goes warily, settling down between Eames' thighs. Eames wraps both arms around his waist and pulls him up snug against Eames' body, and Arthur relaxes in degrees against Eames' chest.
With the laptop in Arthur's lap, Eames has to look over Arthur's shoulder to be able to type, but he's soon able to track down a video he likes. He settles in comfortably, while Arthur just slumps against him and rests a hand on his own stomach. Eames leaves an arm draped around him, rests his hand on top of Arthur's and leaves it there.
It's the heat of Arthur between his legs more than the video that gets his blood stirring. He shifts ever so slightly, as if getting more comfortable, and at the same time letting Arthur feel how hard he is, just in case he feels inclined to do anything about that. Arthur doesn't, apparently. But he shifts once or twice, too, his ass in those jeans rubbing right against Eames' erection.
When Eames can't bear it anymore, he takes his hand away from Arthur's and instead slides it under the waistband of Arthur's jeans, his boxer-briefs. Arthur tenses against him, grabbing his wrist as if to arrest his movement, but Eames is already cupping and stroking his cock. His rather limp, uninterested cock.
Eames removes his hand.
“It's just-I can't, Eames,” Arthur says in a rush, awkwardly. “It's two men. It's not attractive. I can't-”
He shifts again, and stops when this brings him back up against Eames' groin. He sighs. “You're enjoying it,” he says.
“I'm enjoying you in my lap,” Eames says. “Don't need the video, do I?” He slides his palm down over Arthur's jeans and rubs between his legs. “Look, why don't you stop thinking about them, yeah, and start thinking about me doing that to you?”
Arthur stirs a little at that. With a smile, Eames goes on rubbing.
“You'd like that?” he says huskily. “You'd like me to sink my cock into you nice and slow like that, wouldn't you?”
He deftly unzips Arthur's fly one-handed and slips a hand back into his briefs. This time Arthur's cock gives an interested twitch. Encouraged, Eames starts stroking.
“I think you do want that,” he says, pitching his voice low so that Arthur can feel the rumble in his chest. “I think you want me to hold you down and put my cock in you, slow and gentle like that, fuck you nice and shallow till you're squirming and biting your lip to keep yourself from begging me to fuck you harder, make you feel it. You'd want me balls-deep inside you, pounding your tight arse till you scream. You wouldn't beg like him, though.”
Arthur's head tips back slowly, as if unconsciously, until it's resting on Eames' shoulder. He's definitely hard now. His ears are flushed red and he's resolutely silent. Eames withdraws his hand, licks each of his fingers wetly, then slides it back in, until he can press the tip of his middle finger behind Arthur's balls. Arthur's back arches; he sucks in a sharp breath and his hips lift off his couch, pressing him back into Eames as he tries to move away from Eames' seeking finger. Eames doesn't enter him, though, just traces little wet circles around Arthur's hole, stroking Arthur's cock with his thumb, until Arthur has settled warily back down, panting. Then Eames takes his finger away, starts stroking again, rubbing his thumb back and forth over the head, and all the while keeping up his rumbling commentary.
“He's on top now. D'you see that, kitten? One of these days you and I are going to do that. I'm going to pull out and make you get on top of me and fuck yourself on my cock if you want it so bad. And you'd be starved for it, wouldn't you, you'd start riding me just like that. I don't think you'd be slow like him, though, I think you'd want it so bad you'd be bouncing on my cock in no time ...”
“Oh, fuck,” Arthur whispers, arching again, and Eames feels the warm spill of Arthur's come in his palm.
He pulls his hand away and wipes it off on his own jeans, enjoying the effect he's had on Arthur. A little surprising he should come when he did, since he'd turned shy the last time Eames tried to put him on top. Maybe switching halfway through is the best way to introduce Arthur to riding him without Arthur having another mini-crisis. Eames closes the laptop, lies back comfortably and watches Arthur's chest rise and fall.
When Arthur finally takes a deep breath and speaks, it's not what Eames expects to hear.
“I'm sorry.” His voice is deep and ragged after his orgasm. “For what I said earlier, about you ... ruining my life. That was ... really awful. I didn't mean it to come out the way it did.”
“I know what you meant,” says Eames. “It's alright.”
“I'd be in the nut-house if not for you,” Arthur says, exhausted enough to be candid. “And your massages.”
“And my cock,” says Eames, rolling his hips pointedly.
“And your cock,” says Arthur, in tones of long-suffering.
“Especially my cock.”
“Don't push it,” Arthur warns wryly.
They sit there for another few minutes. Eames' cock throbs in his pants but he senses he should stay still for the time being. Eventually Arthur stirs, sighs again. It's almost three o'clock in the morning.
“You want to get in the shower with me?” he asks.
“Always,” says Eames. “What time do you have to be up tomorrow?”
“Not till nine or so. What about you?”
“I've got nowhere better to be,” says Eames honestly.
When they're in the bathroom, Arthur turns around and unbuckles Eames' pants stiffly, pushing them off his hips for him so that his cock is freed.
“I can blow you, if you want,” he says, obviously thinking Eames expects some compensation.
Eames entertains the notion briefly. “That's alright.”
Arthur gives a low little laugh. “What, because I'm terrible at blowjobs?”
“No.” Eames wraps his hands around Arthur's narrow hips and kisses him. Gently, he teases, “You'd probably fall asleep halfway through.” Arthur smiles lopsidedly, not denying it.
They get in, and the water is as deliciously hot as ever. Arthur stands there, drowsing, while Eames soaps and washes him, absently rocking himself against Arthur from behind. Arthur doesn't resist when Eames backs him out of the water spray. He pumps into his own fist a few times and, at long last, comes in white spurts onto the small of Arthur's back. He stands there for a minute, watching his come slide slowly between Arthur's cheeks.
“I can feel that,” Arthur says hoarsely, with an attempt at disapproval.
“Good. You're meant to.” Eames grabs a cloth and starts wiping him off. He soaps himself swiftly afterward and turns the shower off.
Once they're in bed, with the lights switched off so they can sleep, Arthur says sleepily, “I missed you this week.”
“Yeah?” says Eames. “None of your coworkers was willing to fuck you to sleep?”
“Well, yeah,” says Arthur, shrugging, “but he couldn't get the hang of the whole reach-around thing and he wouldn't swallow, it was kind of a let-down.”
Eames shoves him and Arthur laughs-actually laughs, the corners of his eyes creasing and his dimples showing in the dim light from the window. Eames' heart gives a sharp throb all of a sudden-a feeling he decisively pushes away.
“I don't think you realize how lovely you are when you're actually relaxed,” he says. Arthur frowns.
“Maybe I'm just too tired to be mean to you.”
“No, I don't think so.” Eames pokes him in the stomach. “I think you like me, Arthur.”
Arthur writhes, huffing. “What are you, five?” he demands, and in answer Eames has to lean over, push him onto his back and kiss him.
Arthur pushes him off. Slightly stung, Eames retreats a bit.
After a short silence, Arthur says, “You should be with someone who's nice to you all the time.”
“You're running at about seventy percent right now. It's a real improvement.”
“No,” Arthur says. “I'm-overworked and tired all the time and I tell you you're-ruining my life, Jesus-and half the time I don't even get home from work until two in the morning and I don't see you. I can't go out with you in public or ever introduce you to the people I know. You're a good person, Eames, you should be with someone ... else.”
Eames strokes a hand down Arthur's side several times under the covers until he thinks of something to say. “Maybe I'm just here for the big-screen TV.”
Arthur snorts softly and falls quiet again. Then he says, “That must be it.”
“My mum and little sister are flying in next week,” Eames says, after another minute has passed and he can tell Arthur's still awake. “You asked for the Thursday evening off, right?”
“Oh. Yeah, I did.”
Arthur rubs at his nose, frowning, and Eames knows something has disquieted him. He doesn't surrender it for a few minutes, though. Eames waits.
At last, Arthur asks, “What if your mom doesn't like me?”
“Tell her what you do for a living and you'll be fine.”
“She likes analysts?”
“She likes hard workers. What do you care what my mum thinks, anyway?”
“I don't know,” says Arthur. He scratches at his nose again, self-conscious, and looks down. “Seemed important to you.”
Thie words are like a punch to the gut. Eames suddenly wonders, for the first time, when and how he and Arthur, of all people, ended up in an actual relationship. And he wonders-how could he have ever been so blind as to miss it completely?
&
May
The night before the wedding, Eames is lying in bed with Arthur again, having just massaged away all his stress from work, unable to believe that Arthur has never been to a Yankees game.
“I thought every New Yorker had been to see the Yankees,” Eames says.
Arthur says, “I'm not even-I'm from LA, I don't even like baseball,” to which Eames prods him in the ribs, right where Arthur is ticklish, to make him growl.
“Well, I'll have to take you to a game, won't I? You can't be a New Yorker if you eat alone and aren't afraid of pigeons but have never seen a Yankees game. It's against the law.”
“The law, huh,” Arthur says dryly, starting to smile. “What if they put a kiss cam or something on us?”
It's a joke, maybe, or a wry challenge. He just wants to see what Eames will say; and what Eames says is, “I doubt the Americans would jump to the conclusion that the two men sitting together are lovers.”
“I don't know,” Arthur said, and his smile widens, so that his eyes crinkle and his dimples show and Eames' stomach gives a sickening swoop. “You look pretty smitten to me.”
-And now Eames is watching him flee while the other people around him scramble to help pick up dropped hor d'ouevres, not knowing whether to join them or to give chase. He does neither. He's still not sure what just happened.
“Eames, go,” Mal is saying at his side, her face shining anxiously, “go after him, go-”
Her words reach him all at once and Eames snaps out of it. He runs.
“Arthur!” he shouts once he's on the street. “Arthur!”
Arthur's already long gone, though, panicked and humiliated, and Eames just stares around him, forcing away Arthur's last words so that they won't hurt him, not just yet-
He's fucked up, and he's fucked up so horribly, so awfully, so irreparably he thinks he'll throw up. Because Arthur isn't just throwing one of his tantrums. He won't come slinking back to Eames in a week's time and ask to be forgiven. Arthur's worst fears have come true and it's Eames' fault and he's suddenly so terrified of what Arthur might do to himself-the possibilities are bleak and limitless.
Arthur's come so far, gotten so close to being happy, and Eames has just destroyed everything by forcing him out of his comfort zone when he was clearly not ready for it. Now he's gone.
“Fuck,” he hears himself saying over and over again, “fuck, fucking fuck.”
He's panting, starting to panic himself, when he feels a gentle hand on his arm and turns to see Mal and Dom, and his little sister behind them in her beautiful white dress, worried for him.
“It's okay,” he tells her automatically. “He just had an allergic reaction to something-go back inside, Trish, I'll be there in a second.”
“Okay,” she says doubtfully. She pats his arm as she walks past him.
Once she's gone Eames drags both hands down his face, breathing in and out shakily.
“He's gone,” he says.
“What happened?” Mal asks gently.
“I didn't know. I didn't know you knew each other. He's been so terrified of this happening, and I-”
“But Arthur's not gay,” Dom cuts in, “I mean-I'd know if he was, I'm his best friend, I'm-he has a girlfriend, for Christ's sake!”
It clicks. Dom works in finance. Eames drops his hands. “You work with him?”
“I'm his boss.”
Eames has always gotten on well enough with Dom, but right now a sickening hate for Mal's husband surges in him.
“Call him,” he demands. “Call him right now. He won't pick up if it's me and you're the only one he fucking listens to, aren't you. He's at your every beck and call and you don't even realize how stressed out he is or how lonely and fucked-up-”
“Eames,” Mal quells him. Dom eyes Eames resentfully, but after a moment he takes out his phone and presses a few buttons.
In another few seconds he's shaking his head, snapping the phone shut.
“Voicemail. His phone is off.”
Of course, Arthur had turned off his phone for the wedding. On this one occasion, he'd devoted his attention to what was going on with Eames. Somehow that's what really makes it sink in for Eames. For once in his entire working life, Arthur turned off his phone.
He stands there numbly. He can't tell them he thinks Arthur is going to hurt himself. He has nothing to base that on anyway except a few self-deprecating jokes-like I'd have thrown myself in front of a train by now if it wasn't for you. He just can't believe he let this happen. He's the only person in the world Arthur can really be himself with, and he did this to him.
“He doesn't have a girlfriend,” he tells Dom dully. “We've been seeing each other for seven months. And he's so deep in the closet he can't even call it a relationship, but he was doing really well, he was feeling so much better, and now ...”
If you ever touch me again, I'll kill you.
The words are like a lance through his fucking guts.
He turns away, face twisting, and barks out a harsh little laugh. “I can't believe I let him do this,” he says, voice rough, dragging his fingers through his hair. “I can't believe he's pulling this shit. I can't believe-” But his throat closes up and he can't go on.
Mal squeezes his arm gently.
“Give him time,” she says.
“No. He's always going to be like this,” Eames says, staring blankly at the street. He can still feel the way Arthur shoved him away, like he was diseased, and the sheer panicky hatred in his eyes when Eames tried to go after him. “He's never going to get better. I thought I could help him be happy, but he's never going to be. Not while he's the way he is.”
“He should've told me,” Dom mutters, still trying to absorb this. “I could have helped him. I can't believe he never told me.”
Eames' own panic is starting to seep away into a constant, hot, visceral throb. He's lost Arthur. Arthur will never come back from this. And even if he does, Eames can't take him back. He can't keep doing this to himself. He made a promise to Arthur that they'd be over the next time he did something like this. So it's over. They're done.
Just-
He can't quite believe that he'll never bring Arthur coffee in bed again. Never get to see that wry dimpled smile that Arthur seems to reserve just for him. Never have the best sex of Eames' life again. Never get to touch and taste and kiss Arthur just to feel the tension bleed out of him like Eames is the only thing he's ever needed.
He promised himself he'd never let himself be heartbroken like this again. But that's the only word he has for it. He tried to keep Arthur at arm's length and he failed.
He goes through the rest of the night-dancing with his sister, catching up with family-in a zombie-like daze. He hears from Dom that Arthur sent him a rushed message saying he won't be in to work for a while. By the time Eames gets home, he thinks he knows what's going to happen next. Dom won't fire Arthur over this, of course, no matter what Arthur thinks; but Arthur will surely quit, unable to handle the thought of his boss knowing his awful secret. He'll leave his job, and then, probably, he'll leave New York altogether, just to get away from them (from Eames).
And that's what gives Eames an idea. Maybe he's been in New York for too long, too. Maybe it's time for a change.
He's glad he has no photos of Arthur, so that it can be a clean break.
continue
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~15,300
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Vague homophobia, rough sex (borderline dubcon but not really)/some breathplay, the boys being mean to each other
Author's Note: It seems everyone wants more Rough Trade! I was more than happy to revisit my favourite verse and actually flesh it out a little more. :D Additional codas are here, here, and here. Those aren't required reading, but you'll probably want to be familiar with Rough Trade. This one is all Eames' pov and it time warps a bit, so be mindful of that. Broken into two parts because how did this get so long? (Part two is here.) ps. If you catch any typos, you are clearly more awake than I am.
pps. I started writing this when I was in New York a couple weeks ago so it's partly a love letter to my favourite city.
ppps. lolol why yes the title is from Killer Queen why do you ask
December
Eames is leaving Yusuf's place when he spots Arthur across the street, accompanied by a petite brunette. How about that-it's a small island after all.
He doesn't mean to follow them. It just happens that they're heading downtown, the same direction as him, and eventually he walks right past his subway stop and slips across the street to keep them in sight. What is Arthur doing with her? It's a Monday night. And that's definitely Arthur. Straitlaced, besuited Arthur, who last Thursday was face-down and naked in Eames' bed, groaning through his teeth while Eames dug bruising marks into his hips and fucked him.
Eames wonders if the bruises are still there, wrapped up under Arthur's lovely clothes.
They go into a restaurant. It's a nice place, sort of a bistro, with a brunch section on the menu, but there's a bar at one end. Eames takes a seat there at the bar, in an ideal position: Arthur, seated at a little candle-lit table behind him, has his back to Eames. Eames orders a drink and settles in. He's got nothing better to do tonight.
He soon deduces that this is a first date, based on the conversation. The brunette's name is Ariadne and she seems sweet. She's Canadian, is fresh out of business school, and has two cats at home. She's fascinated by Arthur and keeps peppering him with questions about his job. Clever girl, Eames thinks. Brand-new to Manhattan and already networking.
Arthur, in turn, is ... not Arthur. At least, he's not the caustic, hypertense Arthur that Eames has known for about six weeks now. There's a smile evident in his voice. He answers her questions patiently and listens when she talks about herself. He's quiet and polite and-it hits Eames like a blow to the head-himself. This is Arthur when he's not brimming with self-hate. This is the persona he takes to work and drags home and this is the mental place he's in when he watches television and brushes his teeth and does other mundane Arthur things. This is Arthur, talking to this girl, telling her about his Los Angeles upbringing and how he taught his little brother to surf, and when he was fifteen he hit his head so badly on a submerged rock that he cracked his skull and quit surfing for good while his brother went on to do it competitively and give lessons to tourists in Australia on top of his day job. He half laughs about it, like he thinks his brother is stupid for doing this after Arthur's accident, but there's something of a quiet admiration there that Eames has never heard before. Ariadne says what Eames is thinking: that she can't picture Arthur on a surfboard.
Arthur is silent for a moment. Then he says, “I found more important things to do.”
Like what? Eames wants to say. But Ariadne doesn't ask.
Toward the end of the meal, Ariadne says, “Do you want to go back to my place? I'll show you what I mean about the heater, maybe you can do something,” and Eames can't listen to any more of this. He settles his tab and leaves through the side door onto the street corner, where he lights a cigarette and reflects on what he's learned.
He hears Arthur's voice several minutes later. They've left the restaurant. They're coming closer; Eames resolutely doesn't move. Then he hears Arthur say, “You catch a cab, I'll just be a second.”
And then he hears, “Eames.”
Eames knows why he's doing this. It's so that he can control the situation. Otherwise, Eames might walk up to him and that would be more than Arthur can handle, in front of his date; so he's acting, playing at being friendly so that he can keep Eames away. Eames turns to him, looks him up and down slowly.
“On a date?” he says.
Arthur glances back at Ariadne to make sure she's out of earshot. He turns back to Eames, aloof. “That's not really your business.”
“Since I've been fucking you for over a month now, I'd say it's my business,” says Eames. “And hers, too.”
Arthur takes a step back, eyes narrowing. “Are you-jealous?”
“Not at all.” Eames drags in a lungful of smoke, and smiles expansively. “Have a nice date, Arthur. I hope you have lots and lots of sex. And I hope she doesn't mind when you start calling out my name in bed.”
Arthur snaps at this. All at once he's far too close, grabbing the front of Eames' coat so that he can't escape. They're just about of a height, so that Arthur can glare directly into Eames' eyes from just a couple inches away.
“Get this through your fucking head,” he enunciates slowly and softly, so that nobody else can hear. “You and me? Are nothing.”
He releases Eames' coat and plucks the cigarette out of his slack mouth, then flicks it over Eames' shoulder and into the slushy gutter.
“See you on Thursday, Eames,” he says coldly, and with that, he turns and walks back to Ariadne. Eames just stands there, watches them get into a cab and disappear.
&
On Thursday, Eames has Arthur naked and reverse-straddling his lap in short time. He has no objection to fucking Arthur from behind, as it means he gets to watch himself sink into Arthur's tight clenching hole. He can't see as well from this angle, though, and he's only sunk in halfway before he pulls out again, ignoring Arthur's choked sound of need, and urges him up onto his knees. Arthur goes blindly. His arms are stretched in front of him, palms splayed against the wall.
“That's better,” Eames says, pulling Arthur's cheeks apart and pushing the head of his cock back in. Arthur grunts on the long relentless slide in, gritting out a little ah, fuck, probably clenching his eyes shut and trying to pretend he's anywhere other than Eames' bed, legs spread over Eames' thighs, being fucked in the ass by another man.
Eames reaches up impatiently and shoves two fingers into Arthur's mouth, dragging them over his tongue, wanting to bring him back to reality. Arthur bites, disgusted, trying to get rid of Eames' fingers, but he sags and moans when Eames stops taking it slow and starts snapping his hips hard.
His fingers spit-slick, Eames removes them and brings them to the space where he and Arthur are joined. Without breaking stride, he traces Arthur's stretched hole, rubbing, hinting at the threat of dipping inside.
“Feel that,” he says roughly, more throatily than he means to. “Where I'm fucking you. Feel it, Arthur?”
“Fuck.” Arthur's small voice cracks weakly.
“Do you feel where I'm fucking you with my cock? You should; you love it.” He leans down and bites Arthur's neck hard, making Arthur writhe under him in an effort to get away from his teeth. Eames shifts his knees, changing the angle, and starts pounding in even harder, as hard as he can. He wants to hurt Arthur. He wants to hurt everything, and here Arthur is, asking to be hurt. Eames hates him, hates everything about him, hates how effortlessly good-looking he is and the nice clothes he wears and the no-doubt luxurious flat he owns and the way he looks down on Eames as if these things somehow make him better.
You queer piece of shit, Eames thinks heatedly, and when Arthur's shoulders flinch as if a lash has fallen across them, he realizes he said it out loud. He falters.
“Don't stop,” Arthur grates out, hating him right back, his voice low and sex-rough.
He shoves right back when Eames starts fucking him again, pushes with his shoulders, angry, like it's a fight, until Eames has to hold him down, cage him in completely with his body so that Arthur can't squirm away.
“Just take it,” Eames pants, his chest flat to Arthur's back so he can feel Arthur's every quivering muscle, chin almost resting on Arthur's shoulder. Arthur twists his head aside. “Did you fuck that pretty girl the other night like this, Arthur?”
“Fuck you,” Arthur spits out.
“Did you think about me while you did it?” Eames' voice, already low and raspy, goes even lower. He wraps one arm around Arthur's waist and palms his cock, unsurprised to find it straining up against Arthur's belly. Arthur makes a wheezing, snarling sound, tries to buck him off again, but has to melt into the touch when he can't. “I've got you,” Eames says.
Arthur tilts his head even further so that Eames can see no part of his face, and chokes out something that sounds like hate you.
“Did you think about this while you were fucking her?” Eames demands. “When you were inside her, did you think about how much you love it when I'm inside you? You had to, didn't you? This is the only thing that gets you hot anymore, being fucked like this. Like you're worthless. I'm the only one who can give this to you.”
“I fucking hate you,” Arthur forces out harshly, louder this time.
“Is that right,” Eames says, and he flicks his wrist and drags Arthur's orgasm out of him. Arthur's spine snaps taut as a bow, the whole length of his body trembling against Eames, short staccato noises being wrenched out of him loudly as if Eames is killing him. Maybe he is.
He sags into Eames' arm after that, gasping and writhing when Eames goes on stroking him, until Eames comes, too, stars bursting in front of his eyes. It's the best sex of his life, this; it's mad and it's violent and he's never had anything like it. He'd never come so hard in his life till he met Arthur and learned the thrill of pinning his quarry down and fucking like animals.
But it's over now, they're both coming back down, easing apart, shaken and bruised and reeling at whatever-the-hell they just did. Arthur sinks delicately down onto the mattress and Eames just dumps face-first at his side, lacking the energy to even roll over or move out of the wet spot. There's never been an afterglow like this, he thinks. If he can pretend Arthur isn't here, it's blissful.
Usually Arthur catches his breath, restores his basic faculties, and leaves as fast as he can. This time, when they can both breathe again like they haven't just run a marathon, Arthur tilts his head and looks across at Eames.
“I didn't, you know,” he says quietly.
Eames looks at him. His eyes are wet, his hair dishevelled, his cheeks still splotchily flushed. He looks fucked.
“You didn't what?”
“Fuck her,” says Arthur. “We didn't have sex.”
Eames reaches over and pushes a strand of hair off of Arthur's face. It's a small gesture that makes Arthur look as lost and bewildered as a child.
&
March
Eames surprises Arthur one Saturday morning by showing up on his doorstep. Arthur looks almost criminally adorable in his rumpled pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt, hair all damp and askew, when he answers Eames' knock. He squints accusingly.
“It's ten o'clock.”
“I know,” says Eames.
“I'm not-” He stops, glancing around the hallway as if he thinks his neighbours will have their doors ajar, ears pressed eagerly to the cracks so they can hear. He lowers his voice. “I'm not letting you fuck me at ten o'clock. I just showered.”
“I'm not here for that.”
Arthur looks deeply suspicious. He lets Eames in, though.
“You didn't text,” he says, folding his arms over his chest accusingly when the door is shut. He seems a touch more relaxed now, though, safe and hidden in his apartment. “What if I'd had someone over?”
“Obviously,” says Eames, “I'd have torn your clothes off and started shagging you on the threshold.”
A smile tugs at Arthur's lips. “Obviously,” he says dryly.
Now that they're alone, Eames is free to lean in and press a kiss to Arthur's mouth. He feels Arthur drop his hands to his sides; then he raises them to Eames' face and leans into the kiss. He tastes of bitter coffee.
“Did you sleep?” Eames asks, drawing back.
“A little,” says Arthur, and now Eames can see the dark circles under his eyes, belying their brightness. “Better than nothing.” He clears his throat. “We can-if you want to fuck, I mean. I don't have plans.”
Eames can't help but smile. “That's very sporting of you, Arthur, but actually I wanted to ask if you'd like to go for a walk with me.”
It's comical, how confused this request seems to leave Arthur. “A walk?”
“Yes, a walk. In Central Park. It's really warm and sunny today, it's lovely.”
“I ...” Arthur looks as though he'd rather Eames just fuck him. “We agreed. This doesn't-”
“Leave the apartment,” Eames says impatiently, “I know. I'm not asking you to start making out with me in public, Arthur. It's just a walk.”
Arthur sighs, picking distractedly at his shirt. “I guess I have to change,” he says finally.
Eames smiles fondly again. “Yes.”
He changes into neatly-pressed slacks and a red turtleneck to go under his double-breasted black coat. All of Arthur's outfits look impeccably nice on him, but Eames likes his wrinkled, faded sleep-clothes best. He's not sure Arthur even owns a pair of jeans.
“Do we have to walk to the park?” Arthur asks, when they're on the sidewalk outside.
Eames grins. “Walking's good for you.”
“Inhaling smog and car exhaust is good for me?” Arthur says skeptically, but he doesn't try to flag a cab.
Eames thinks Arthur's opinion of New York is unfair. Certainly when he, Eames, had first arrived in the city, he had expected soot and pigeons to line every street. But it's trees, not trash, that adorn every sidewalk; in the summer there are flowerbeds outside the buildings rather than dumpsters, and he has yet to meet a single cockroach. There are some inoffensive little pillbug-like insects he shares his tiny flat with, but no roaches. And though he's spied a couple of rats, he's never seen one claw its way out of a toilet. With all its old architecture and fascinating inhabitants, Eames truly does think New York is beautiful.
Arthur glares at the city as if it's personally offended him. He's a typical New Yorker, charging right onto the street even when the 'Don't Walk' sign is lit up, stopping several feet away from the curb and waiting there impatiently while cars whip past him mere inches away, or crossing without even a glance in either direction when there is no traffic. Eames has to hurry to keep up. Noticing, Arthur slows down just a bit.
This is the inspiration for a conversation about what the mark of a true New Yorker is. Eames thinks it's how readily one plunges into traffic regardless of what the light says; Arthur disagrees and says scornfully that even tourists jaywalk; the true mark is how un-self-consciously one eats alone in a restaurant, and for bonus points, whether they flinch when a bird flies at them. This last one makes Eames laugh, because it's true. Arthur doesn't budge when pigeons flap past his face and he's as New York as it gets-even if he wasn't born here.
It all helps to prove Eames' theory correct: The thing about Arthur is that on his territory he's cagey and guarded, and on Eames' he's defensive and prickly. Sometimes, when he forgets where he is, he's none of those things. Eames wants to get him on neutral ground, and so far it's working. Arthur is relaxing. Only strangers walk past them, and none of them spare a glance for two men walking side by side.
It isn't long before they reach Central Park West, the street that runs parallel to the park, and they stroll alongside the fence with bare trees and sheer rocks dominating the view on one side and yellow taxis streaming past on the other. It's one of the funny little juxtapositions that Eames so loves about New York. When they walk past 85th St., he points to one of the buildings across the street from them.
“My older sister lives there.”
“Really?” Arthur looks intrigued. He twists around to look at the building. “What does she do?”
“She's an actress. Has a steady gig on a soap opera.” Eames lived with her for awhile when he'd first landed in New York, but as big as her apartment is, it hadn't worked. Her boyfriend had recently moved in, and Eames had been ruining the whole honeymoon phase with his depression and drugs and bad temper. Amy's got a lot of patience when it comes to him, but only to a point.
Arthur is still looking at the building, probably calculating how much rent would cost, and something compels Eames to say, “That's all you respect, isn't it? How much money a person makes?”
Arthur turns his head from the building to look at Eames. “No,” he says.
“Right,” Eames scoffs quietly.
Arthur wipes his face of emotion and stares coolly ahead. It was a stupid thing to say and Eames is already wishing he'd just kept it to himself, but sometimes he really hates Arthur's attitude about money. If Eames were a computer programmer making six figures every year, then, he thinks, maybe Arthur wouldn't be so hesitant to be seen with him. Even if he finds a full-time job, he's never going to make a lot of money. He knows and accepts that. Some part of Arthur will always look down on him. It would make anyone resentful.
He wisely shuts up, but the air between them is chilly until they reach an entrance and turn into the park. It seems everyone is taking advantage of the warm weather: Dog-walkers stroll past them; tourists consult maps; vendors sell deep-fried peanuts (Arthur regards these with grave suspicion). Eames tells him to wait and jogs over to one of the vendors. He returns with two salted pretzels and lemonades.
“Pretzels?” says Arthur, taking his gingerly.
“I thought we'd make a picnic of it,” says Eames.
“Some picnic.” But Arthur tears a small bite off of his and chews it slowly. It doesn't seem to offend him too badly, because he takes another nibble. Arthur's probably never bought food from a street vendor in his life. Eames grins.
“Look at you, slumming it like us common folk.”
Arthur swallows his little bite of pretzel and says, “I know you think of me as some kind of Little Lord Fauntleroy, but that isn't actually the case.”
“I'm just teasing you, Arthur.”
“I know. You do it often enough.” Arthur squints when they walk past a grassy field full of people and their children, and mutters, “God, I hope my boss isn't out with his kids today.”
“So what if he is?” Eames asks. “What if he sees you?”
Arthur shrugs and looks away like he always does when this comes up. “I don't know. That's why it can't happen.”
“What,” Eames says impatiently, “he'd spot you and just assume you're out for a stroll with your male lover?”
“Yeah, because you really look like my lawyer,” Arthur bites back. “And keep your voice down.”
“Why?” Eames says, louder. “Are you worried the strangers will judge you for being queer in public, Arthur?”
“Eames,” Arthur says warningly.
Eames suddenly turns, yanking Arthur around to face him, and crushes their mouths together. Arthur's mouth falls open slightly, reflexively, and Eames shoves his tongue in, clasping Arthur's neck with his free hand so he can't turn his head aside. It gives him a little thrill when Arthur just stands there and lets himself be kissed, wetly and messily, in front of all these people. The few other pedestrians on the path just walk around them without even slowing down, but a couple of teenage girls on a nearby bench yell, “Whoo!” and someone wolf-whistles.
Eames finally lets go when he has to breathe. Arthur stands there, rooted to the spot, catching his breath. His whole body is rigid; his lips are an attractive red.
“Well?” Eames says, satisfied. “Nothing happened.”
He notices Arthur's shaking hands at about the same moment Arthur fixes him with a look so furiously cold it makes Eames' insides freeze for a second.
“Never,” Arthur says, with a quiet simmer to the words, “do that again.”
Neither of them move. Pedestrians continue to filter past them. Eames feel a twinge of misgiving and he waits, uncertainly, for Arthur to turn around and start walking home.
Instead, Arthur starts walking again. He wraps up the pretzel and shoves it into his coat pocket, and keeps his head down, but he doesn't say anything when Eames catches him up and falls into step beside him again.
“I can't believe you did that,” Arthur says in the same low voice when several minutes have gone by, not looking at him.
“I'm sorry,” says Eames quietly. And he is. However irrational he thinks Arthur's feelings are, it doesn't make them any less real. And what does he know, anyway? Maybe being found out really would have calamitous consequences for Arthur's career. He doubts it, but he doesn't live in Arthur's world, after all. Arthur's the one who will have to deal with any repercussions. Just, sometimes-
Sometimes it just feels a bit too cramped for two people in Arthur's closet.
Arthur huffs out a short sigh, shaking his head. “Can we sit down somewhere?”
Eames leads him off the path, over a little hillock to a shaded area where they can't be seen. Arthur drops onto the grass gratefully, pulls out his pretzel and starts nibbling it again.
“Nice picnic,” he says, and Eames recognizes this as a tentative olive branch.
“I'm glad you think so.” Eames gives him one of the lemonades. Arthur eyes it mistrustfully and, with a frown, starts reading the ingredients. Eames chuckles. “I can tell you the ingredients, Arthur, it's all sugar and food dye.”
“That's what I thought,” Arthur says. He uncaps it and takes a sip, pulling a face and grousing, “Ugh. It's so sweet.” But he keeps drinking it.
Eames laughs again. “Have you even had anything to eat today?”
“I had a banana,” says Arthur defensively. “Bananas are good for you.”
“Not if you live off them and Chinese take-out.”
“Ugh,” Arthur says again, giving up on the lemonade. He lies down on his back and closes his eyes against the sun. Occasionally he lifts the pretzel and bites off a piece until it's gone; then he sighs and folds his hands on his stomach.
Eames smiles and starts eating his own pretzel, watching the section of path he can see from his vantage point. From here, one could almost forget they were in a city at all.
For a few minutes they're quiet; then Eames says “Hey,” an idea striking him. “We should go to the Natural History Museum. It's not far from here.”
Arthur doesn't answer. His brow has lost its little grumpy furrow; he looks at ease and relaxed in the grass. Eames snorts.
“Are you asleep already? I haven't even got your trousers off yet.”
It's a bit of a mean joke, a reference to the two-odd occasions when Arthur has fallen asleep during sex, but when he doesn't respond to that Eames realizes he actually has fallen asleep. He smiles. Good for Arthur. Uncapping his lemonade, he stretches out and gets comfy. He'll probably be sitting here for awhile.
It's only been about twenty minutes, however, when the peace is disrupted by a buzzing in Arthur's pocket. Arthur jumps awake like he's been shocked.
“What?” he says, looking around blearily. The phone buzzes again. Arthur's eyes widen and he grabs it quickly. “I have to, sorry,” he says to Eames; and to the phone, “What is it?”
And then, “Oh, fuck.”
And, “Are you kidding me?”
He gets to his feet, brushing dead grass off his trousers, and wanders away a short distance, so that Eames can't hear what he's saying but can hear the way his voice rises unhappily, and he's not stupid. He knows what it all means.
When Arthur comes back, phone dangling from his hand, Eames says, “You have to work.”
“Yeah.” Arthur rubs at his face, grinding his knuckles into the bridge of his nose. “Shit. I'm sorry.”
“Well, tell them to go fuck themselves,” Eames says, suddenly angry. “How much sleep have you gotten lately?”
Arthur just looks at him tiredly. “What's the fastest way out of here?”
“Come on,” Eames mutters, not bothering to argue anymore. Even if Arthur had the option of refusing to work, he wouldn't. He's like a manic Border collie. When he's overworked he's exhausted and only able to think about the next load of work; but when there's no work, he goes off his little head. Tomorrow, he'll be even more tired and grouchy-if he bothers to connect with Eames at all.
Eames leads him out of the park, and Arthur says a short “See you” and bounds off the curb to flag a taxi, heedless again of the cars that blow past him a foot away. One of them stops; he gets in and it drives off promptly.
Some picnic, Eames thinks sourly, kicking at a pebble. It disturbs a pigeon, which takes off and flaps directly for his face, making him flinch back. In that moment he's never felt so stupidly out of place and alone in New York.
&
January
“Yusuf says you're seeing someone,” says Amy, almost crows it, in fact. Eames frowns. It's New Year's Day and his sister invited him over for a glass of wine; he didn't realize this would be an interrogation.
“Since when do you talk to Yusuf?”
“Facebook,” she says. “So?”
“So it's nothing,” says Eames. “He's an investment banker with a heap of baggage. I meet him once a week and we have excellent, no-strings-attached sex.”
“No strings attached?” His sister raises an eyebrow. Abruptly Eames loses patience.
“I'm not looking for a relationship.”
“I know you aren't.”
“He's the most closeted gay I've ever met in my life. He'd never let this become anything but sex.”
“I know,” says Amy. “That's what worries me. I don't know, but it sounds like this guy could hurt you.”
“He won't,” says Eames flatly. “I don't want anything from him. I don't want anything from anyone.”
“I know what you've been through,” Amy starts, carefully, and Eames snaps:
“No. You don't.”
Amy doesn't say anything for a minute. When she finally does speak, her voice is soft.
“I'm sorry about what happened with Henri.”
“I'm not.” The words sound jagged and callous, roughened in his throat. “I'm just sorry he fooled me for so long.”
“They're not all like that, you know,” Amy says gently. “There are a lot of gay guys in Manhattan. You could find somebody who'd be good for you.”
“Henri was good for me. Didn't stop him from fucking another man while I was at school. He didn't even tell me-d'you know how I found out? I found his fucking HIV-positive test results. We were together for seven years.”
“I know,” Amy says again. “And I know you don't just get over something like that. But you can't run yourself into the ground trying to forget about it.”
“I'm fine,” Eames says bluntly. “You're a bit late to clean me up; Yusuf's done that already. I'm working again, even.”
“And you're having sex with some guy who hates you.”
“He asked me to fuck him without a condom,” Eames says impulsively. “He didn't even ask if I was clean. It made me crazy at first. I wondered if he was just stupid, but then I realized-he didn't want to know. He'd have thought that was perfect, probably, picking up AIDS or something from me. It would have been the perfect punishment for him. He's that self-destructive, he thinks he deserves HIV just for letting himself be with a man ...”
“You didn't do it, I hope,” says Amy.
“No,” Eames lies. Arthur had showed him his latest clean bill of health shortly after, though Eames hadn't asked, and they'd already done it anyway. Maybe Eames has a self-destructive streak, too. “I'm just saying-what if he tried that with the wrong guy?”
“Oh,” says Amy wryly, “I see.”
Her knowing tone irritates him. “See what?”
“You like him.”
“I can't stand him,” says Eames. “He's a nasty little weasel and he hates me. There's nothing to like.”
“And you like him anyway,” says Amy. “You see why I worry?”
Eames can't say what he thinks, which is that he only got into this because he was hurting and he needed to hurt someone else and Arthur was right there asking for it. He wanted to hurt Arthur and now, knowing how impossibly fucked-up he is, Eames just wants to-help him. He lies to himself, says that's not why he's still doing this, still putting up with Arthur; but if he left, where would Arthur be in a year? Every now and then Arthur reveals just how vulnerable he is-or he lets himself slip and says something to make Eames think he could actually be likeable if he wanted to be-and Eames wants to guard him jealously, because there are men out there who'd eat Arthur up and spit him out in a heartbeat. Maybe Eames wanted to be that man at first, but it's not what Arthur deserves, even if he thinks it is. He sort of understands Arthur now. He refuses to partake in that fantasy anymore, that he's only around to punish Arthur for being attracted to him. If Arthur keeps coming back to him, Eames will keep him safe-for as long as he can keep this up, anyway.
All things considered, Amy is right to worry. It doesn't mean he appreciates it.
They both hear her boyfriend arrive home and Eames drains his wine glass and gets to his feet. “This is why Trisha's my favourite sister,” he tells her. Amy smiles.
“Just be careful,” she says.
But Eames is already being careful. After spending last year in a miserable, brokenhearted fog, he finally cares again.
He just can't admit it.
&
April
He gets one over on Arthur once, and it's delicious.
Arthur's in Utah on business, not due back till the next day, and Eames takes shameless advantage of this to hang out in his apartment as much as possible. It's so much nicer and bigger and better-smelling than Eames' building. And the windows have actual views, versus Eames' single grubby pane which looks across a span of several feet to a wall of dirty brick. May as well not have a window at all.
He has a couple drinks with his sister and then, since he's on the Upper West Side anyway, he decides he may as well spend the last night at Arthur's place. He takes the train, and once at Arthur's place he has to punch in the code to open the wrought-iron gate, then unlock the front door with one of two keys, slip past the doorman (who knows him by sight now) and head up the elevator to the 24th floor, and at last unlock Arthur's door with the other key. He eases the door shut behind him quietly, because it's a heavy door and it's two o'clock in the morning. Then he realizes there's a light on in the living room.
He slips off his shoes noiselessly and creeps forward. He knows how to fight. He's prepared to defend Arthur's flat.
But curled up on the couch, with his back against the armrest and a laptop resting on his thighs, is Arthur himself. Eames pulls up short, watching him for a minute. Arthur, facing the far wall, doesn't appear to see him. He's got headphones on and, amazingly, a pair of jeans. Nice jeans, but jeans. He's chewing his lip, brow furrowed, and as Eames watches he smooths a hand down over his groin, pressing the heel of his palm down and taking in a slow breath.
Eames circles wide around him until he's at Arthur's back and able to look over his shoulder. It takes him a second to register that what he's seeing, on Arthur's computer screen, is gay porn. He presses a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing aloud, because this seems very funny with a few drinks in him. And it's definitely-two men, both very athletic-looking, one vigorously pounding the other's ass and giving it the occasional hard slap. It looks hard, anyway; Eames can't hear anything from Arthur's headphones.
He stands there for a couple minutes, unsure how to proceed. He could slip off to the bedroom and claim he'd been there all along. But probably Arthur's already dumped his luggage in there, and it would be much more fun to catch him in flagrante delicto. The thing is, though, Arthur's not jerking off. Not even when Eames has been standing there for a while. He keeps his hand over the crotch of his jeans, occasionally kneading a bit, but he doesn't touch himself. It's maddening, especially since Eames is getting so hot and bothered behind him.
Eventually he just goes for the most direct option. He leans down, pulls one of Arthur's headphones away from his ear, and says, “Sorry, am I supposed to spank you like that?”
Arthur's reaction is even better than he could have hoped for. It's electric-he leaps up, twisting to scramble to his feet at the same time, so that he sends the laptop flying. Instantly he pounces on it where it lands on the floor, snapping it shut, and throws the headphones away from him.
“Eames!” he says hoarsely. He looks like he's able to yell, but then he lowers his head and puts his face in his hands, taking a deep breath. Eames wonders fleetingly if he's about to cry. Then he straightens up again and says weakly, “You almost gave me a heart attack, asshole!”
“Sorry,” says Eames, grinning, not really sorry at all now that it appears Arthur's okay. “I was enjoying the show.”
Arthur's ears turn pink. “Fuck off.”
“It's just porn, Arthur. We all watch porn.”
“Well,” says Arthur, picking up the laptop off the floor, “I don't.”
“Bollocks.”
“I mean ...” Arthur pauses, drags a hand over his face again, and sighs. “Not gay porn,” he says at last, exquisitely embarrassed-practically squirming with it. “I just-I got home early and I couldn't sleep, and I couldn't jerk off, so I was ... curious.”
His face is red, too, now. He flicks a belligerant glance Eames' way, daring him to make something of this. Eames raises his eyebrows.
“You've never wanked off to gay porn before,” he says skeptically.
In answer, Arthur opens the laptop again. The video is paused. He minimizes it, then pulls up a folder, types in a password, and swivels it to face Eames. It's a folder full of downloaded porn flicks, naturally, not a lot but a tidy little collection; and it's all straight porn. Straight, except for the lonely little gay flick at the bottom.
“You're joking,” says Eames. Arthur shakes his head. “You're telling me that when you thought you'd maybe like to give being gay a try, you started by picking up someone who'd fuck you? You didn't indulge your curiosity a little? Light some candles, run a bubble bath, explore your burgeoning sexuality?”
Arthur snaps the laptop shut and says, in a voice that's suddenly rough like he's swallowed broken glass, “I didn't want to like it.”
“Oh,” says Eames. He hesitates. “Didn't you?”
“No,” Arthur says dully. “I just hated myself enough to do it again.” He drags a hand through his hair, looking tired and unhappy. “I hated it till I met you.”
Eames preens a bit at that, but only until Arthur gives a low, shaky laugh and said, “I still don't want to like it. I like being with you, Eames, really, I do, but this is ruining my life.”
Every once in awhile Eames gains a flash of insight into Arthur's life and gets it, for that one moment. For a second he sees how Arthur is so stressed-out that he can't eat regularly or sleep at night unless Eames is there to help him relax; and on the same hand, he can see how keeping this secret is even more stressful, leaving him even more wound-up, chasing him right back to Eames every time. Eames realizes he could be offended by what Arthur's just said, but he looks so visibly tortured that it sort of breaks Eames' heart for a second.
“Well,” he says, after a pause, “at least don't be watching that rubbish. Watch something good if you're going to get into gay porn.”
Arthur cracks a smile. Eames flops onto the couch, taking up the same position Arthur was in before; back to the armrest, legs stretched out. He pats the space between his legs and Arthur goes warily, settling down between Eames' thighs. Eames wraps both arms around his waist and pulls him up snug against Eames' body, and Arthur relaxes in degrees against Eames' chest.
With the laptop in Arthur's lap, Eames has to look over Arthur's shoulder to be able to type, but he's soon able to track down a video he likes. He settles in comfortably, while Arthur just slumps against him and rests a hand on his own stomach. Eames leaves an arm draped around him, rests his hand on top of Arthur's and leaves it there.
It's the heat of Arthur between his legs more than the video that gets his blood stirring. He shifts ever so slightly, as if getting more comfortable, and at the same time letting Arthur feel how hard he is, just in case he feels inclined to do anything about that. Arthur doesn't, apparently. But he shifts once or twice, too, his ass in those jeans rubbing right against Eames' erection.
When Eames can't bear it anymore, he takes his hand away from Arthur's and instead slides it under the waistband of Arthur's jeans, his boxer-briefs. Arthur tenses against him, grabbing his wrist as if to arrest his movement, but Eames is already cupping and stroking his cock. His rather limp, uninterested cock.
Eames removes his hand.
“It's just-I can't, Eames,” Arthur says in a rush, awkwardly. “It's two men. It's not attractive. I can't-”
He shifts again, and stops when this brings him back up against Eames' groin. He sighs. “You're enjoying it,” he says.
“I'm enjoying you in my lap,” Eames says. “Don't need the video, do I?” He slides his palm down over Arthur's jeans and rubs between his legs. “Look, why don't you stop thinking about them, yeah, and start thinking about me doing that to you?”
Arthur stirs a little at that. With a smile, Eames goes on rubbing.
“You'd like that?” he says huskily. “You'd like me to sink my cock into you nice and slow like that, wouldn't you?”
He deftly unzips Arthur's fly one-handed and slips a hand back into his briefs. This time Arthur's cock gives an interested twitch. Encouraged, Eames starts stroking.
“I think you do want that,” he says, pitching his voice low so that Arthur can feel the rumble in his chest. “I think you want me to hold you down and put my cock in you, slow and gentle like that, fuck you nice and shallow till you're squirming and biting your lip to keep yourself from begging me to fuck you harder, make you feel it. You'd want me balls-deep inside you, pounding your tight arse till you scream. You wouldn't beg like him, though.”
Arthur's head tips back slowly, as if unconsciously, until it's resting on Eames' shoulder. He's definitely hard now. His ears are flushed red and he's resolutely silent. Eames withdraws his hand, licks each of his fingers wetly, then slides it back in, until he can press the tip of his middle finger behind Arthur's balls. Arthur's back arches; he sucks in a sharp breath and his hips lift off his couch, pressing him back into Eames as he tries to move away from Eames' seeking finger. Eames doesn't enter him, though, just traces little wet circles around Arthur's hole, stroking Arthur's cock with his thumb, until Arthur has settled warily back down, panting. Then Eames takes his finger away, starts stroking again, rubbing his thumb back and forth over the head, and all the while keeping up his rumbling commentary.
“He's on top now. D'you see that, kitten? One of these days you and I are going to do that. I'm going to pull out and make you get on top of me and fuck yourself on my cock if you want it so bad. And you'd be starved for it, wouldn't you, you'd start riding me just like that. I don't think you'd be slow like him, though, I think you'd want it so bad you'd be bouncing on my cock in no time ...”
“Oh, fuck,” Arthur whispers, arching again, and Eames feels the warm spill of Arthur's come in his palm.
He pulls his hand away and wipes it off on his own jeans, enjoying the effect he's had on Arthur. A little surprising he should come when he did, since he'd turned shy the last time Eames tried to put him on top. Maybe switching halfway through is the best way to introduce Arthur to riding him without Arthur having another mini-crisis. Eames closes the laptop, lies back comfortably and watches Arthur's chest rise and fall.
When Arthur finally takes a deep breath and speaks, it's not what Eames expects to hear.
“I'm sorry.” His voice is deep and ragged after his orgasm. “For what I said earlier, about you ... ruining my life. That was ... really awful. I didn't mean it to come out the way it did.”
“I know what you meant,” says Eames. “It's alright.”
“I'd be in the nut-house if not for you,” Arthur says, exhausted enough to be candid. “And your massages.”
“And my cock,” says Eames, rolling his hips pointedly.
“And your cock,” says Arthur, in tones of long-suffering.
“Especially my cock.”
“Don't push it,” Arthur warns wryly.
They sit there for another few minutes. Eames' cock throbs in his pants but he senses he should stay still for the time being. Eventually Arthur stirs, sighs again. It's almost three o'clock in the morning.
“You want to get in the shower with me?” he asks.
“Always,” says Eames. “What time do you have to be up tomorrow?”
“Not till nine or so. What about you?”
“I've got nowhere better to be,” says Eames honestly.
When they're in the bathroom, Arthur turns around and unbuckles Eames' pants stiffly, pushing them off his hips for him so that his cock is freed.
“I can blow you, if you want,” he says, obviously thinking Eames expects some compensation.
Eames entertains the notion briefly. “That's alright.”
Arthur gives a low little laugh. “What, because I'm terrible at blowjobs?”
“No.” Eames wraps his hands around Arthur's narrow hips and kisses him. Gently, he teases, “You'd probably fall asleep halfway through.” Arthur smiles lopsidedly, not denying it.
They get in, and the water is as deliciously hot as ever. Arthur stands there, drowsing, while Eames soaps and washes him, absently rocking himself against Arthur from behind. Arthur doesn't resist when Eames backs him out of the water spray. He pumps into his own fist a few times and, at long last, comes in white spurts onto the small of Arthur's back. He stands there for a minute, watching his come slide slowly between Arthur's cheeks.
“I can feel that,” Arthur says hoarsely, with an attempt at disapproval.
“Good. You're meant to.” Eames grabs a cloth and starts wiping him off. He soaps himself swiftly afterward and turns the shower off.
Once they're in bed, with the lights switched off so they can sleep, Arthur says sleepily, “I missed you this week.”
“Yeah?” says Eames. “None of your coworkers was willing to fuck you to sleep?”
“Well, yeah,” says Arthur, shrugging, “but he couldn't get the hang of the whole reach-around thing and he wouldn't swallow, it was kind of a let-down.”
Eames shoves him and Arthur laughs-actually laughs, the corners of his eyes creasing and his dimples showing in the dim light from the window. Eames' heart gives a sharp throb all of a sudden-a feeling he decisively pushes away.
“I don't think you realize how lovely you are when you're actually relaxed,” he says. Arthur frowns.
“Maybe I'm just too tired to be mean to you.”
“No, I don't think so.” Eames pokes him in the stomach. “I think you like me, Arthur.”
Arthur writhes, huffing. “What are you, five?” he demands, and in answer Eames has to lean over, push him onto his back and kiss him.
Arthur pushes him off. Slightly stung, Eames retreats a bit.
After a short silence, Arthur says, “You should be with someone who's nice to you all the time.”
“You're running at about seventy percent right now. It's a real improvement.”
“No,” Arthur says. “I'm-overworked and tired all the time and I tell you you're-ruining my life, Jesus-and half the time I don't even get home from work until two in the morning and I don't see you. I can't go out with you in public or ever introduce you to the people I know. You're a good person, Eames, you should be with someone ... else.”
Eames strokes a hand down Arthur's side several times under the covers until he thinks of something to say. “Maybe I'm just here for the big-screen TV.”
Arthur snorts softly and falls quiet again. Then he says, “That must be it.”
“My mum and little sister are flying in next week,” Eames says, after another minute has passed and he can tell Arthur's still awake. “You asked for the Thursday evening off, right?”
“Oh. Yeah, I did.”
Arthur rubs at his nose, frowning, and Eames knows something has disquieted him. He doesn't surrender it for a few minutes, though. Eames waits.
At last, Arthur asks, “What if your mom doesn't like me?”
“Tell her what you do for a living and you'll be fine.”
“She likes analysts?”
“She likes hard workers. What do you care what my mum thinks, anyway?”
“I don't know,” says Arthur. He scratches at his nose again, self-conscious, and looks down. “Seemed important to you.”
Thie words are like a punch to the gut. Eames suddenly wonders, for the first time, when and how he and Arthur, of all people, ended up in an actual relationship. And he wonders-how could he have ever been so blind as to miss it completely?
&
May
The night before the wedding, Eames is lying in bed with Arthur again, having just massaged away all his stress from work, unable to believe that Arthur has never been to a Yankees game.
“I thought every New Yorker had been to see the Yankees,” Eames says.
Arthur says, “I'm not even-I'm from LA, I don't even like baseball,” to which Eames prods him in the ribs, right where Arthur is ticklish, to make him growl.
“Well, I'll have to take you to a game, won't I? You can't be a New Yorker if you eat alone and aren't afraid of pigeons but have never seen a Yankees game. It's against the law.”
“The law, huh,” Arthur says dryly, starting to smile. “What if they put a kiss cam or something on us?”
It's a joke, maybe, or a wry challenge. He just wants to see what Eames will say; and what Eames says is, “I doubt the Americans would jump to the conclusion that the two men sitting together are lovers.”
“I don't know,” Arthur said, and his smile widens, so that his eyes crinkle and his dimples show and Eames' stomach gives a sickening swoop. “You look pretty smitten to me.”
-And now Eames is watching him flee while the other people around him scramble to help pick up dropped hor d'ouevres, not knowing whether to join them or to give chase. He does neither. He's still not sure what just happened.
“Eames, go,” Mal is saying at his side, her face shining anxiously, “go after him, go-”
Her words reach him all at once and Eames snaps out of it. He runs.
“Arthur!” he shouts once he's on the street. “Arthur!”
Arthur's already long gone, though, panicked and humiliated, and Eames just stares around him, forcing away Arthur's last words so that they won't hurt him, not just yet-
He's fucked up, and he's fucked up so horribly, so awfully, so irreparably he thinks he'll throw up. Because Arthur isn't just throwing one of his tantrums. He won't come slinking back to Eames in a week's time and ask to be forgiven. Arthur's worst fears have come true and it's Eames' fault and he's suddenly so terrified of what Arthur might do to himself-the possibilities are bleak and limitless.
Arthur's come so far, gotten so close to being happy, and Eames has just destroyed everything by forcing him out of his comfort zone when he was clearly not ready for it. Now he's gone.
“Fuck,” he hears himself saying over and over again, “fuck, fucking fuck.”
He's panting, starting to panic himself, when he feels a gentle hand on his arm and turns to see Mal and Dom, and his little sister behind them in her beautiful white dress, worried for him.
“It's okay,” he tells her automatically. “He just had an allergic reaction to something-go back inside, Trish, I'll be there in a second.”
“Okay,” she says doubtfully. She pats his arm as she walks past him.
Once she's gone Eames drags both hands down his face, breathing in and out shakily.
“He's gone,” he says.
“What happened?” Mal asks gently.
“I didn't know. I didn't know you knew each other. He's been so terrified of this happening, and I-”
“But Arthur's not gay,” Dom cuts in, “I mean-I'd know if he was, I'm his best friend, I'm-he has a girlfriend, for Christ's sake!”
It clicks. Dom works in finance. Eames drops his hands. “You work with him?”
“I'm his boss.”
Eames has always gotten on well enough with Dom, but right now a sickening hate for Mal's husband surges in him.
“Call him,” he demands. “Call him right now. He won't pick up if it's me and you're the only one he fucking listens to, aren't you. He's at your every beck and call and you don't even realize how stressed out he is or how lonely and fucked-up-”
“Eames,” Mal quells him. Dom eyes Eames resentfully, but after a moment he takes out his phone and presses a few buttons.
In another few seconds he's shaking his head, snapping the phone shut.
“Voicemail. His phone is off.”
Of course, Arthur had turned off his phone for the wedding. On this one occasion, he'd devoted his attention to what was going on with Eames. Somehow that's what really makes it sink in for Eames. For once in his entire working life, Arthur turned off his phone.
He stands there numbly. He can't tell them he thinks Arthur is going to hurt himself. He has nothing to base that on anyway except a few self-deprecating jokes-like I'd have thrown myself in front of a train by now if it wasn't for you. He just can't believe he let this happen. He's the only person in the world Arthur can really be himself with, and he did this to him.
“He doesn't have a girlfriend,” he tells Dom dully. “We've been seeing each other for seven months. And he's so deep in the closet he can't even call it a relationship, but he was doing really well, he was feeling so much better, and now ...”
If you ever touch me again, I'll kill you.
The words are like a lance through his fucking guts.
He turns away, face twisting, and barks out a harsh little laugh. “I can't believe I let him do this,” he says, voice rough, dragging his fingers through his hair. “I can't believe he's pulling this shit. I can't believe-” But his throat closes up and he can't go on.
Mal squeezes his arm gently.
“Give him time,” she says.
“No. He's always going to be like this,” Eames says, staring blankly at the street. He can still feel the way Arthur shoved him away, like he was diseased, and the sheer panicky hatred in his eyes when Eames tried to go after him. “He's never going to get better. I thought I could help him be happy, but he's never going to be. Not while he's the way he is.”
“He should've told me,” Dom mutters, still trying to absorb this. “I could have helped him. I can't believe he never told me.”
Eames' own panic is starting to seep away into a constant, hot, visceral throb. He's lost Arthur. Arthur will never come back from this. And even if he does, Eames can't take him back. He can't keep doing this to himself. He made a promise to Arthur that they'd be over the next time he did something like this. So it's over. They're done.
Just-
He can't quite believe that he'll never bring Arthur coffee in bed again. Never get to see that wry dimpled smile that Arthur seems to reserve just for him. Never have the best sex of Eames' life again. Never get to touch and taste and kiss Arthur just to feel the tension bleed out of him like Eames is the only thing he's ever needed.
He promised himself he'd never let himself be heartbroken like this again. But that's the only word he has for it. He tried to keep Arthur at arm's length and he failed.
He goes through the rest of the night-dancing with his sister, catching up with family-in a zombie-like daze. He hears from Dom that Arthur sent him a rushed message saying he won't be in to work for a while. By the time Eames gets home, he thinks he knows what's going to happen next. Dom won't fire Arthur over this, of course, no matter what Arthur thinks; but Arthur will surely quit, unable to handle the thought of his boss knowing his awful secret. He'll leave his job, and then, probably, he'll leave New York altogether, just to get away from them (from Eames).
And that's what gives Eames an idea. Maybe he's been in New York for too long, too. Maybe it's time for a change.
He's glad he has no photos of Arthur, so that it can be a clean break.
continue