Fic: Nor Breath Nor Motion
Title: Nor Breath Nor Motion
Author: zeto
Characters/Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: R
Word Count: 3.4 K
Disclaimer: Inception is Christopher Nolan's. I don't own these characters.
Summary: Two-for-one fill. Inception Kink Meme fills found here and here. Arthur goes to a summer party and falls in love, but he forgets in the morning.
Note: ;-; Still not a sequel to "A Promise Made". Sorry, lovelies. Bonus cookie: can you spot the Firefly line? Also, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner is a lovely poem written by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. <3
So far, Arthur has had a bottle of Corona, two Crispy Crunch shots, a Burt Reynolds and a lick of salt, followed by a shot of tequila and a bite into a lime wedge. Ah, good, ol' fashioned classic, that one.
No, wait. That's not right.
So far, Arthur has had a bottle of Corona, three Crispy Crunch shots, a bottle of Stella, two Burt Reynolds and a lick of salt, followed by a shot of tequila and a bite into a lime wedge.
No, that's not right either.
So far, Arthur has had--oh, to hell with it. Arthur has had a lot of alcohol. Let's leave it at that.
There he is, our dashing, young hero of this tale. Our intrepid, clever champion. Our sharp-witted, handsome victor--oh, who are we kidding?
There he is, our skinny, drunken protagonist.
He's eighteen, school is about to commence in the fall and the Wellington twins are having a final summer bash before their parents return from their anniversary cruise.
Everyone who is anyone is there, and Arthur wonders how he got invited. He suspects it has something to do with his sister. After all, he's not much more than a shrimpy (skinny, you're just a little skinny, his mother insists, and you need to eat more) bespectacled (those glasses make you look intelligent, dear....Thank you, mother, for the years of 'four-eyed Arthur' and schoolyard bullying that resulted in me insulting the uncouth neanderthals with words they can't even comprehend and thus sending the bullies into tears.) teenager with a penchant for words with more than three syllables, poems and neurobiology. What kid in high school even knows what neurobiology is anyway? This one apparently.
His sister is tall, leggy and she's got, what his classmates like (and like to call) a ''perfect hourglass figure”. She's also got, what his classmates don't like, something of a brother-complex. In other words, in her words, “If Arthur doesn't show, I don't show.” It likely stems from their close bond as siblings; the Wellingtons aren't the only set of twins in the school after all.
Arthur isn't sure where she's run off to at the moment though. He imagines Aurora (apparently his parents had a thing for faery tales, lucky them) is flirting with Jackson, and he doesn't blame her one iota. Jackson is intelligent, witty and he devotes two hours a week at the local animal shelter. His shiny, red Camaro doesn't hurt either. His shiny, red Camaro that he named Shelley. That's right, as in Mary Shelley. As in Frankenstein. Frankenstein...which also just happens to be the name of the abandoned puppy Jackson had adopted a couple of years ago. He has a great smile, with the cutest dimples and he maintains an A average effortlessly.
Jackson, Arthur decides and nods stalwartly to himself, is a keeper. A keeper and also possibly non-existent because. How. Can. He. Be. Real? Arthur is even willing to bet the guy has perfect penmanship. And, if Aurora ever decides she doesn't want him, well, Arthur's more than willing to step up to the plate. At least he is while he's got more liquid courage than blood running through his veins.
At the moment though, there is no one in the kitchen and Arthur isn't willing to go looking for his sister or her hot soon-to-be boyfriend. That would require effort. Instead, the brunet finds himself staring at the dark grey fridge as though it holds the answer to life, the universe, and everything.
A candlemark later, he decides, no, no that fridge doesn't hold the answer. He suspects though, that the answer may very well be forty-two.
Frowning, Arthur experimentally pokes at a magnet on the fridge. After a moment, his slender fingers start to skate across the smooth surface, plucking off the bright pieces of plastic and cupping them in one palm. Tongue peeking out from between thin, pink lips, he begins to build a story.
He pressed a
kiss to her palm
and ghosted
his fingers
a
There are literally dozens upon dozens of the tiny magnets, in a multitude of colours, and Arthur finds himself lost in the task. He jerks like a startled deer when a husky, smooth voice breaks the silence in the kitchen and a handful of the magnets tumble to the ground, clattering against the white kitchen tiles.
Turning bright red, Arthur quickly kneels down to hide his face; there are plenty of hot guys and girls, the alcohol is flowing free, the music is practically rocking the walls and here he is, in the kitchen alone, playing with fridge magnets.
He takes his sweet time collecting the pieces, hoping the intruder will take his leave as quickly as possible.
Instead, Arthur is shocked to find the stranger kneeling next to him, helping him pick up the pieces. After they are done, and Arthur manages to snag the last bright blue “E” from beneath the corner of the refrigerator, they rise at the same time.
“Thanks,” Arthur mumbles, holding his hand out to take back the magnets.
To his immense surprise, the stranger returns the alphabet letters but deliberately picks out a crimson “L” from Arthur's palm. Slides it carefully next to the “A”.
Without even thinking about it, Arthur is already picking his next letter.
And the other man is matching him, letter for letter, and together, they are building a story made of hard plastic and bright colours. It's short; they have no beginning or ending. And hell, the middle's pretty weak, as far as Arthur is concerned, but they are working with what they have.
Arthur feels a little bit faint, as though he's not entirely there. As though he's disconnected from his body and he's merely watching the scene play out before him. Eventually, they run out of letters and that's it. Their story is finished. Or at least, as finished as it will ever be.
Despite the fact that this is obviously someone who is as weird as Arthur, who builds stories from refrigerator magnets in the middle of an alcohol-laden party, he still feels mighty embarrassed (oh thank you, alcohol, for multiplying and boosting all emotions) and without looking at the stranger, Arthur turns to make his escape.
“Hey,” the other man quietly speaks up. “Aren't you going to read it? We worked hard on it. Great, isn't it?”
He flushes dully, eyes darting to the kitchen appliance for a split second. “Yeah, it's really something.”
“Read it to me.”
“What?”
“Read it to me,” the other man repeats, and the accent makes itself known. It's British, through and through.
Arthur feels like he's in a unlit tunnel. Everything around him is dark and blurry, and the light at the end is so far away. Even sound is taking a long time to reach his ears, tinny and faint when it does. He shakes his head. “I...I should go.”
“Please.”
That one word. And he comes undone.
Returning his eyes to the fridge, Arthur reads over their poem quickly in his head, just once to make sure he has it right. Opens his mouth, “He pressed a kiss to her palm...”
The strange, young man captures his hand, and Arthur's voice falters. Hazel eyes, framed by the most amazing lashes Arthur has ever seen on any man, watch his face as pair of warm, full lips press into the centre of his palm. Arthur sucks in a quick, little breath, making a tiny, strangled noise in his throat. He swallows hard, something sharp and harsh caught in his throat.
“...and ghosted his fingers along her skin, warm and light.”
“You are she in that story,” the other man murmurs.
He feels the large but graceful fingers release his hand only to reach up, trace his cheek, the touch light but sure. His heart is beating like a drum, knocking at the walls of his chest, trying to climb its way out. He's torn between leaning in for more and running away. Running away, protecting himself. But in the end, he does nothing and simply stands there, absorbs the warmth like a flower soaking in the sunlight.
It is that exact moment when Arthur falls in love. Not that he realizes it.
There is a burst of laughter right outside the kitchen and it's like a jolt of pure electricity to Arthur's system. He jerks away, red-hot heat flooding his cheeks. Mumbling something, some sort of excuse, any excuse, and then he flees the room, seeking sanctuary in another part of the house.
*~*~*~*
Half an hour later, Arthur carefully stacks his empty can of Heineken on top of the other ones. The other empty cans. His empty cans. Well, they're not all his. Maybe just one or two. Because that would be a lot of alcohol. He pulls back and squints at the bridge he's built before nodding to himself and dusting his hands off. He had wanted to build the Penrose stairs but alas, physics still apply, even to the drunk.
A tiny little part of his mind thinks, if he drinks enough, he won't remember the kitchen scene come morning. Actually, if he thinks about it now, the scene is already a little bit fuzzy around the edges.
He nearly jumps out of his skin, and he barely manages to hold back a yelp, when someone grabs him by the elbow and drags him into a dark, dingy little room in the basement. The shelves are lined with jars and cans, and from the ceiling hangs onions and other vegetables. It's a cellar, Arthur realizes.
“What the--” he starts, all affronted indignation.
“Ssh,” the other person hushes him and shuts the door behind them. “Hide and seek. Last people to be found are the winners.”
With the use of his cellphone, the other man finds a couple of pillars of boxes for them to hide behind. It takes a moment but then the voice begins to sink in. It's the man from the kitchen.
Arthur groans and resists the urge to hit his head against the shelves.
How is this his life?
“What's wrong?”
“Nothing,” he mutters, pretending not to recognize the other. If Arthur is lucky, perhaps he won't be recognized either.
“You are she in that story,” he says quietly.
Fucking hell. No such luck, damnit.
“My name is Thomas but everyone calls me Eames.”
“Arthur,” he replies unwittingly before it hits him that maybe he ought to have lied and made up a name. But it's too late now.
“It suits you,” Eames tells him.
“Shut up.”
“It's true,” insists Eames.
“Shut up,” Arthur scowls and shoves the other man against the wall. “You're impossible, you know that, right?”
And then he practically attacks the other man, trapping him against the wall, roughly jamming their lips together. It hurts because Arthur misjudged the distance but then the pain peters out and all that's left is the heat, the taste of his lips laden with alcohol.
Arthur is expecting to be shoved away now. And also possibly punched in the face. Because who just assaults someone out of the blue like that? Assaults them with their lips. Any...second now...Eames is going to...kiss...him back.
Holy. Fucking. Hell.
The British guy is kissing him back. He tastes like Baileys and cherry cigarettes; a combination that should, by all rights, be disgusting, but to his consternation, Arthur finds it pleasing. Very pleasing.
Arthur pulls back. “Wait, wait. What are you doing?”
Eames blinks, confused. “Well, I don't know about you, but in the UK, we call this snogging.”
“You--aren't you--do you always just kiss random strangers?” an offended Arthur demands, because the thought of Eames making out with anyone willing is just. Not on.
“Just the cute ones,” comes the tongue-in-cheek reply. “Mmm, all right then. I'm Eames. I'm twenty. I attend the local college. I wrestle on the men's team. I like Wordsworth and Coleridge. I also have a thing for cute guys with glasses.
Besides, I wouldn't really label us as strangers. We write poems together.”
That is a very valid point, a small part of Arthur's brain decides before it shuts down on him, short-circuited by the feeling of the hard-on against his thigh. He finds himself helplessly rubbing against it, shifts his hips and undulates against Eames, delighting in the groan he receives. The friction from his denim jeans sends little bolts of heat coursing through him, settling deep in his belly.
Then Eames is kissing him this time, all soft heat and dry lips.
Arthur feels the older man's tongue snake out, trace slowly along his lower lip before sliding into his mouth and he lets out a tiny, little sound, muffled by the other man's lips. He feels Eames' cock twitch in response. The older man's fingers glide underneath his shirt, map out the curves and dips along his back, memorize each and every single inch and it feels like Eames is etching his journey into Arthur's skin. The scent of Baileys and cherries is overwhelming.
It's a slow, sensual seduction of Arthur's senses, like a growing fire with flickering flames licking and teasing the logs in a hearth, gradually devouring from the outside in. His eyes flutter shut, and he lets himself.
Fall.
Just fall.
Sinks into the emotions the older man draws from him and kisses him back hungrily. His own hands curl loosely about Eames' neck. His cock is so hard, it's painful and the urge to bite Eames' lower lip is overpowering. So he gives in and bites down in the fleshy, full lip, and is rewarded with another groan.
If he had known, perhaps Arthur would have tried harder to commit the older man into his memory. Imprint his taste, his touch, his scent into his very being.
But come morning, all he will remember is a rough voice, made husky with desire. The other man grinding their groins together, bringing them closer and closer to the edge, their movements getting more and more frantic until they climax, soiling their underwear. It had felt naughty, filthy and just downright fantastic. Arthur will barely recall getting hard again within minutes and simultaneously thanking and damning his teenage hormones. He'll only just be able to remember how he came again and again, pressed against the walls in the cellar, surrounded by dusty shelves.
*~*~*~*
The memories of that night are stacked in a corner of his mind, dusty and forgotten. It has been a long time since the Point Man has given them any thought.
That however, is about to change.
It starts off like any other day.
He's the first one at the warehouse but the others slowly trickle in shortly after him. As usual, the last one to arrive gets the honour of retrieving drinks for everyone else.
Hallowe'en is fast approaching. Which means screaming, rowdy kids, fireworks, a plethora of candy and the inevitable arrival of tacky, so-called nightmare-inducing movies. It is something Arthur is very much not looking forward too.
Secretly though, he doesn't mind the kids. In fact, he loves children. Philippa and James are prime examples. It's once children have hit a certain age that he begins to develop a dislike for them. Arthur is of the mind that babies and children up to age ten are fine. Once they begin to develop attitude though, he figures they ought to be locked up until they reach their twenties.
What the Point Man is looking forward to, however, is pumpkin season. Pumpkin bread, pumpkin chai lattes, pumpkin doughnuts, pumpkin cake and most importantly, pumpkin pie.
When Yusuf returns, bearing drinks, Arthur is delighted to see his favourite pumpkin chai latte. He takes a slow sip, savouring the first taste of the spicy drink, careful not to burn his tongue.
They settle in and Arthur passes out the dossier on their latest mark, the author of a popular novel series. He overhears a snippet of conversation between Ariadne and Eames.
“I know everyone's heard the line:
Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink.
But personally, I prefer this stanza:
Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.”
Arthur casts a startled look in his direction as he is about to hand the last of the copies to Cobb.
Eames catches it and raises an eyebrow. “Why, yes Arthur. I have read a poem. Try not to faint. In fact, I like Wordsworth and Coleridge.”
I attend the local college...
I wrestle on the men's team...
I like Wordsworth and Coleridge...
I like Wordsworth and Coleridge....
...Wordsworth and Coleridge....
Feeling himself freeze up, the papers slip from his nerveless fingers and Arthur's heart skips a beat. Then another. He feels all his blood immediately rush south, and bites down on his lower lip.
The sheets flutter to the ground, forgotten like an overdue library book or yesterday's meatloaf.
*~*~*~*
The next day, Arthur arrives at the warehouse last, which affords him the onus of picking up the drinks. It's the first time in a long time that he's been the last one to show up and Ariadne even comments on it.
The reason for his tardiness stems from his lack of sleep. He doesn't elaborate; he may or may not have spent the better part of the night wanking himself raw to the thought of Eames, that night in the cellar. Their bodies pressed together, all heat and delicious friction. Mouths fitting together like a well-made puzzle, hands greedily skimming over every inch of skin.
When Cobb squints at him, asking him about his glasses, Arthur barely manages to refrain from throwing his hands up in frustration. Instead, he tells his nosy, busybody colleagues that glasses are easier to deal with due to his lack of sleep and time.
It has nothing to do with the fact that Eames has a thing for men with glasses.
Nothing at all.
Right.
And at the end of the day, when they're having dinner at a restaurant nearby, if he so happens to ask for a can of Heineken, which he's never ordered before, well, that's his choice.
“I swear, you're acting very odd today, Arthur,” Ariadne says, giving him a curious look. “You were late, you're wearing glasses, and I don't think I've ever seen you drink Heineken, much less any beer at all. Are you coming down with something?”
Saito even offers the services of his on-call physician.
His glare is somewhat offset by the heat in his cheeks, which he attempts to fight off but he knows he's failed miserably as he fumbles with an excuse.
It is fortunate for him when their food arrives and the conversation is diverted to the topic of food.
*~*~*~*
In the morning, Arthur makes a point of being especially early. His outfit is perfectly pressed and immaculate. His glasses are nowhere to be seen, much to Cobb's amusement and Eames' chagrin.
“I thought you looked quite dapper in those glasses, darling.”
“They're a hassle to keep clean,” Arthur replies with a shrug. “Not to mention, they keep sliding down my nose.”
“That's a shame. Anyway, I got you something,” Eames carries on, presenting him with a little gift bag.
Arthur pulls out the bulky but neatly-wrapped gift, giving Eames a questioning look.
“Just open it,” the other man urges, with a fond, exasperated tone.
Frowning for a moment, the Point Man considers the package. He shrugs to himself and tears off the paper to reveal a pack of refrigerator magnets, in a multitude of hard plastic and bright colours. His head jerks up, and he stares at the older man.
Eames remembers. All this time. All these years later.
“You had forgotten. I didn't want to push you; I was just waiting for you to remember.” Eames says simply.
You are she in that story.
END
Feedback is, as always, much appreciated.
Author: zeto
Characters/Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: R
Word Count: 3.4 K
Disclaimer: Inception is Christopher Nolan's. I don't own these characters.
Summary: Two-for-one fill. Inception Kink Meme fills found here and here. Arthur goes to a summer party and falls in love, but he forgets in the morning.
Note: ;-; Still not a sequel to "A Promise Made". Sorry, lovelies. Bonus cookie: can you spot the Firefly line? Also, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner is a lovely poem written by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. <3
So far, Arthur has had a bottle of Corona, two Crispy Crunch shots, a Burt Reynolds and a lick of salt, followed by a shot of tequila and a bite into a lime wedge. Ah, good, ol' fashioned classic, that one.
No, wait. That's not right.
So far, Arthur has had a bottle of Corona, three Crispy Crunch shots, a bottle of Stella, two Burt Reynolds and a lick of salt, followed by a shot of tequila and a bite into a lime wedge.
No, that's not right either.
So far, Arthur has had--oh, to hell with it. Arthur has had a lot of alcohol. Let's leave it at that.
There he is, our dashing, young hero of this tale. Our intrepid, clever champion. Our sharp-witted, handsome victor--oh, who are we kidding?
There he is, our skinny, drunken protagonist.
He's eighteen, school is about to commence in the fall and the Wellington twins are having a final summer bash before their parents return from their anniversary cruise.
Everyone who is anyone is there, and Arthur wonders how he got invited. He suspects it has something to do with his sister. After all, he's not much more than a shrimpy (skinny, you're just a little skinny, his mother insists, and you need to eat more) bespectacled (those glasses make you look intelligent, dear....Thank you, mother, for the years of 'four-eyed Arthur' and schoolyard bullying that resulted in me insulting the uncouth neanderthals with words they can't even comprehend and thus sending the bullies into tears.) teenager with a penchant for words with more than three syllables, poems and neurobiology. What kid in high school even knows what neurobiology is anyway? This one apparently.
His sister is tall, leggy and she's got, what his classmates like (and like to call) a ''perfect hourglass figure”. She's also got, what his classmates don't like, something of a brother-complex. In other words, in her words, “If Arthur doesn't show, I don't show.” It likely stems from their close bond as siblings; the Wellingtons aren't the only set of twins in the school after all.
Arthur isn't sure where she's run off to at the moment though. He imagines Aurora (apparently his parents had a thing for faery tales, lucky them) is flirting with Jackson, and he doesn't blame her one iota. Jackson is intelligent, witty and he devotes two hours a week at the local animal shelter. His shiny, red Camaro doesn't hurt either. His shiny, red Camaro that he named Shelley. That's right, as in Mary Shelley. As in Frankenstein. Frankenstein...which also just happens to be the name of the abandoned puppy Jackson had adopted a couple of years ago. He has a great smile, with the cutest dimples and he maintains an A average effortlessly.
Jackson, Arthur decides and nods stalwartly to himself, is a keeper. A keeper and also possibly non-existent because. How. Can. He. Be. Real? Arthur is even willing to bet the guy has perfect penmanship. And, if Aurora ever decides she doesn't want him, well, Arthur's more than willing to step up to the plate. At least he is while he's got more liquid courage than blood running through his veins.
At the moment though, there is no one in the kitchen and Arthur isn't willing to go looking for his sister or her hot soon-to-be boyfriend. That would require effort. Instead, the brunet finds himself staring at the dark grey fridge as though it holds the answer to life, the universe, and everything.
A candlemark later, he decides, no, no that fridge doesn't hold the answer. He suspects though, that the answer may very well be forty-two.
Frowning, Arthur experimentally pokes at a magnet on the fridge. After a moment, his slender fingers start to skate across the smooth surface, plucking off the bright pieces of plastic and cupping them in one palm. Tongue peeking out from between thin, pink lips, he begins to build a story.
He pressed a
kiss to her palm
and ghosted
his fingers
a
There are literally dozens upon dozens of the tiny magnets, in a multitude of colours, and Arthur finds himself lost in the task. He jerks like a startled deer when a husky, smooth voice breaks the silence in the kitchen and a handful of the magnets tumble to the ground, clattering against the white kitchen tiles.
Turning bright red, Arthur quickly kneels down to hide his face; there are plenty of hot guys and girls, the alcohol is flowing free, the music is practically rocking the walls and here he is, in the kitchen alone, playing with fridge magnets.
He takes his sweet time collecting the pieces, hoping the intruder will take his leave as quickly as possible.
Instead, Arthur is shocked to find the stranger kneeling next to him, helping him pick up the pieces. After they are done, and Arthur manages to snag the last bright blue “E” from beneath the corner of the refrigerator, they rise at the same time.
“Thanks,” Arthur mumbles, holding his hand out to take back the magnets.
To his immense surprise, the stranger returns the alphabet letters but deliberately picks out a crimson “L” from Arthur's palm. Slides it carefully next to the “A”.
Without even thinking about it, Arthur is already picking his next letter.
And the other man is matching him, letter for letter, and together, they are building a story made of hard plastic and bright colours. It's short; they have no beginning or ending. And hell, the middle's pretty weak, as far as Arthur is concerned, but they are working with what they have.
Arthur feels a little bit faint, as though he's not entirely there. As though he's disconnected from his body and he's merely watching the scene play out before him. Eventually, they run out of letters and that's it. Their story is finished. Or at least, as finished as it will ever be.
Despite the fact that this is obviously someone who is as weird as Arthur, who builds stories from refrigerator magnets in the middle of an alcohol-laden party, he still feels mighty embarrassed (oh thank you, alcohol, for multiplying and boosting all emotions) and without looking at the stranger, Arthur turns to make his escape.
“Hey,” the other man quietly speaks up. “Aren't you going to read it? We worked hard on it. Great, isn't it?”
He flushes dully, eyes darting to the kitchen appliance for a split second. “Yeah, it's really something.”
“Read it to me.”
“What?”
“Read it to me,” the other man repeats, and the accent makes itself known. It's British, through and through.
Arthur feels like he's in a unlit tunnel. Everything around him is dark and blurry, and the light at the end is so far away. Even sound is taking a long time to reach his ears, tinny and faint when it does. He shakes his head. “I...I should go.”
“Please.”
That one word. And he comes undone.
Returning his eyes to the fridge, Arthur reads over their poem quickly in his head, just once to make sure he has it right. Opens his mouth, “He pressed a kiss to her palm...”
The strange, young man captures his hand, and Arthur's voice falters. Hazel eyes, framed by the most amazing lashes Arthur has ever seen on any man, watch his face as pair of warm, full lips press into the centre of his palm. Arthur sucks in a quick, little breath, making a tiny, strangled noise in his throat. He swallows hard, something sharp and harsh caught in his throat.
“...and ghosted his fingers along her skin, warm and light.”
“You are she in that story,” the other man murmurs.
He feels the large but graceful fingers release his hand only to reach up, trace his cheek, the touch light but sure. His heart is beating like a drum, knocking at the walls of his chest, trying to climb its way out. He's torn between leaning in for more and running away. Running away, protecting himself. But in the end, he does nothing and simply stands there, absorbs the warmth like a flower soaking in the sunlight.
It is that exact moment when Arthur falls in love. Not that he realizes it.
There is a burst of laughter right outside the kitchen and it's like a jolt of pure electricity to Arthur's system. He jerks away, red-hot heat flooding his cheeks. Mumbling something, some sort of excuse, any excuse, and then he flees the room, seeking sanctuary in another part of the house.
*~*~*~*
Half an hour later, Arthur carefully stacks his empty can of Heineken on top of the other ones. The other empty cans. His empty cans. Well, they're not all his. Maybe just one or two. Because that would be a lot of alcohol. He pulls back and squints at the bridge he's built before nodding to himself and dusting his hands off. He had wanted to build the Penrose stairs but alas, physics still apply, even to the drunk.
A tiny little part of his mind thinks, if he drinks enough, he won't remember the kitchen scene come morning. Actually, if he thinks about it now, the scene is already a little bit fuzzy around the edges.
He nearly jumps out of his skin, and he barely manages to hold back a yelp, when someone grabs him by the elbow and drags him into a dark, dingy little room in the basement. The shelves are lined with jars and cans, and from the ceiling hangs onions and other vegetables. It's a cellar, Arthur realizes.
“What the--” he starts, all affronted indignation.
“Ssh,” the other person hushes him and shuts the door behind them. “Hide and seek. Last people to be found are the winners.”
With the use of his cellphone, the other man finds a couple of pillars of boxes for them to hide behind. It takes a moment but then the voice begins to sink in. It's the man from the kitchen.
Arthur groans and resists the urge to hit his head against the shelves.
How is this his life?
“What's wrong?”
“Nothing,” he mutters, pretending not to recognize the other. If Arthur is lucky, perhaps he won't be recognized either.
“You are she in that story,” he says quietly.
Fucking hell. No such luck, damnit.
“My name is Thomas but everyone calls me Eames.”
“Arthur,” he replies unwittingly before it hits him that maybe he ought to have lied and made up a name. But it's too late now.
“It suits you,” Eames tells him.
“Shut up.”
“It's true,” insists Eames.
“Shut up,” Arthur scowls and shoves the other man against the wall. “You're impossible, you know that, right?”
And then he practically attacks the other man, trapping him against the wall, roughly jamming their lips together. It hurts because Arthur misjudged the distance but then the pain peters out and all that's left is the heat, the taste of his lips laden with alcohol.
Arthur is expecting to be shoved away now. And also possibly punched in the face. Because who just assaults someone out of the blue like that? Assaults them with their lips. Any...second now...Eames is going to...kiss...him back.
Holy. Fucking. Hell.
The British guy is kissing him back. He tastes like Baileys and cherry cigarettes; a combination that should, by all rights, be disgusting, but to his consternation, Arthur finds it pleasing. Very pleasing.
Arthur pulls back. “Wait, wait. What are you doing?”
Eames blinks, confused. “Well, I don't know about you, but in the UK, we call this snogging.”
“You--aren't you--do you always just kiss random strangers?” an offended Arthur demands, because the thought of Eames making out with anyone willing is just. Not on.
“Just the cute ones,” comes the tongue-in-cheek reply. “Mmm, all right then. I'm Eames. I'm twenty. I attend the local college. I wrestle on the men's team. I like Wordsworth and Coleridge. I also have a thing for cute guys with glasses.
Besides, I wouldn't really label us as strangers. We write poems together.”
That is a very valid point, a small part of Arthur's brain decides before it shuts down on him, short-circuited by the feeling of the hard-on against his thigh. He finds himself helplessly rubbing against it, shifts his hips and undulates against Eames, delighting in the groan he receives. The friction from his denim jeans sends little bolts of heat coursing through him, settling deep in his belly.
Then Eames is kissing him this time, all soft heat and dry lips.
Arthur feels the older man's tongue snake out, trace slowly along his lower lip before sliding into his mouth and he lets out a tiny, little sound, muffled by the other man's lips. He feels Eames' cock twitch in response. The older man's fingers glide underneath his shirt, map out the curves and dips along his back, memorize each and every single inch and it feels like Eames is etching his journey into Arthur's skin. The scent of Baileys and cherries is overwhelming.
It's a slow, sensual seduction of Arthur's senses, like a growing fire with flickering flames licking and teasing the logs in a hearth, gradually devouring from the outside in. His eyes flutter shut, and he lets himself.
Fall.
Just fall.
Sinks into the emotions the older man draws from him and kisses him back hungrily. His own hands curl loosely about Eames' neck. His cock is so hard, it's painful and the urge to bite Eames' lower lip is overpowering. So he gives in and bites down in the fleshy, full lip, and is rewarded with another groan.
If he had known, perhaps Arthur would have tried harder to commit the older man into his memory. Imprint his taste, his touch, his scent into his very being.
But come morning, all he will remember is a rough voice, made husky with desire. The other man grinding their groins together, bringing them closer and closer to the edge, their movements getting more and more frantic until they climax, soiling their underwear. It had felt naughty, filthy and just downright fantastic. Arthur will barely recall getting hard again within minutes and simultaneously thanking and damning his teenage hormones. He'll only just be able to remember how he came again and again, pressed against the walls in the cellar, surrounded by dusty shelves.
*~*~*~*
The memories of that night are stacked in a corner of his mind, dusty and forgotten. It has been a long time since the Point Man has given them any thought.
That however, is about to change.
It starts off like any other day.
He's the first one at the warehouse but the others slowly trickle in shortly after him. As usual, the last one to arrive gets the honour of retrieving drinks for everyone else.
Hallowe'en is fast approaching. Which means screaming, rowdy kids, fireworks, a plethora of candy and the inevitable arrival of tacky, so-called nightmare-inducing movies. It is something Arthur is very much not looking forward too.
Secretly though, he doesn't mind the kids. In fact, he loves children. Philippa and James are prime examples. It's once children have hit a certain age that he begins to develop a dislike for them. Arthur is of the mind that babies and children up to age ten are fine. Once they begin to develop attitude though, he figures they ought to be locked up until they reach their twenties.
What the Point Man is looking forward to, however, is pumpkin season. Pumpkin bread, pumpkin chai lattes, pumpkin doughnuts, pumpkin cake and most importantly, pumpkin pie.
When Yusuf returns, bearing drinks, Arthur is delighted to see his favourite pumpkin chai latte. He takes a slow sip, savouring the first taste of the spicy drink, careful not to burn his tongue.
They settle in and Arthur passes out the dossier on their latest mark, the author of a popular novel series. He overhears a snippet of conversation between Ariadne and Eames.
“I know everyone's heard the line:
Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, every where,
Nor any drop to drink.
But personally, I prefer this stanza:
Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.”
Arthur casts a startled look in his direction as he is about to hand the last of the copies to Cobb.
Eames catches it and raises an eyebrow. “Why, yes Arthur. I have read a poem. Try not to faint. In fact, I like Wordsworth and Coleridge.”
I attend the local college...
I wrestle on the men's team...
I like Wordsworth and Coleridge...
I like Wordsworth and Coleridge....
...Wordsworth and Coleridge....
Feeling himself freeze up, the papers slip from his nerveless fingers and Arthur's heart skips a beat. Then another. He feels all his blood immediately rush south, and bites down on his lower lip.
The sheets flutter to the ground, forgotten like an overdue library book or yesterday's meatloaf.
*~*~*~*
The next day, Arthur arrives at the warehouse last, which affords him the onus of picking up the drinks. It's the first time in a long time that he's been the last one to show up and Ariadne even comments on it.
The reason for his tardiness stems from his lack of sleep. He doesn't elaborate; he may or may not have spent the better part of the night wanking himself raw to the thought of Eames, that night in the cellar. Their bodies pressed together, all heat and delicious friction. Mouths fitting together like a well-made puzzle, hands greedily skimming over every inch of skin.
When Cobb squints at him, asking him about his glasses, Arthur barely manages to refrain from throwing his hands up in frustration. Instead, he tells his nosy, busybody colleagues that glasses are easier to deal with due to his lack of sleep and time.
It has nothing to do with the fact that Eames has a thing for men with glasses.
Nothing at all.
Right.
And at the end of the day, when they're having dinner at a restaurant nearby, if he so happens to ask for a can of Heineken, which he's never ordered before, well, that's his choice.
“I swear, you're acting very odd today, Arthur,” Ariadne says, giving him a curious look. “You were late, you're wearing glasses, and I don't think I've ever seen you drink Heineken, much less any beer at all. Are you coming down with something?”
Saito even offers the services of his on-call physician.
His glare is somewhat offset by the heat in his cheeks, which he attempts to fight off but he knows he's failed miserably as he fumbles with an excuse.
It is fortunate for him when their food arrives and the conversation is diverted to the topic of food.
*~*~*~*
In the morning, Arthur makes a point of being especially early. His outfit is perfectly pressed and immaculate. His glasses are nowhere to be seen, much to Cobb's amusement and Eames' chagrin.
“I thought you looked quite dapper in those glasses, darling.”
“They're a hassle to keep clean,” Arthur replies with a shrug. “Not to mention, they keep sliding down my nose.”
“That's a shame. Anyway, I got you something,” Eames carries on, presenting him with a little gift bag.
Arthur pulls out the bulky but neatly-wrapped gift, giving Eames a questioning look.
“Just open it,” the other man urges, with a fond, exasperated tone.
Frowning for a moment, the Point Man considers the package. He shrugs to himself and tears off the paper to reveal a pack of refrigerator magnets, in a multitude of hard plastic and bright colours. His head jerks up, and he stares at the older man.
Eames remembers. All this time. All these years later.
“You had forgotten. I didn't want to push you; I was just waiting for you to remember.” Eames says simply.
You are she in that story.
END
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