Fic: There's got to be a morning after Chapter 10: The Animal Song
There's got to be a morning after
Chapter 10: The Animal Song
Master post
Wordcount: 15,000
Eames opens his eyes to Arthur lying beside him, fully dressed and ready for a run.
"I've never seen anyone in dreamshare sleep as deeply as you do naturally," Arthur says.
"Dreamshare sleep voyeur, are we?"
"You'd be surprised by the number of people who ask me to watch their backs while they nap." Arthur smiles. "Apparently, I make people feel safe."
"I suppose you don't seem inclined to steal my secrets and exploit them," Eames says, consideringly. "Have you ever peeked?"
"No." Arthur chuckles wryly. "I see enough crazy shit on the job. I don't need to supplement that with whatever else people have going on in their recreational dreams."
Eames laughs. "True enough."
"You said you dream naturally," Arthur says. "What do you dream about?"
"Nothing terribly interesting, I'm afraid."
"Yeah? You do math problems or something?"
"You know I'm dreadful at maths." Eames pauses for a chuckle, but Arthur simply waits for him to continue. "I dream of my parents' estate in Scotland. Every now and again."
"What's it like?"
"Quite dull. Nothing like your hanging gardens." When Arthur doesn't seem put off, Eames continues, somewhat reluctantly. "I--I don't suppose you'd like to pop in for a visit."
Another smile blossoms across Arthur's face, causing something to flutter inside Eames. It's a patently absurd thing to feel. He's far too old for butterflies. "I'd like that."
Eames had intended it as an empty offer, a courtesy tossed into the air to be politely acknowledged and never acted upon. The distressing part isn't that Arthur said yes, it's that Eames now feels the desire to reveal himself to Arthur. To bare himself. Eames tucks his face back into a pillow and tries not to think about it.
"I like the way you wake up," Arthur says, laying kisses along the back of Eames' ear, his neck. "That makes me sound like even more of a creep, huh?"
"A tad." Eames yawns and spreads his legs, pushing his arse up as a clear invitation.
"You always seem so serene, like you're coming out of a great dream." Arthur hesitates for an instant. "Like you're happy to see me."
Eames blinks into the pillowcase, his eyelashes catching in the weave of the fabric. "I am-happy."
Arthur slicks him and slips in, continues to press kisses along Eames' shoulders and back.
"You feel good," Arthur whispers as he begins to thrust. He runs his palms over the length of Eames' arms.
Eames hums in response, his own dick growing erect. It's a nice angle, a soft brush against the prostate accompanying the fullness of Arthur inside, the gentle friction of Eames' cock against the sheets. Eames isn't overly concerned with coming-is content with the feel of Arthur's lips against his skin, his cool fingers intertwined with Eames'.
Arthur comes with a throaty grunt and, after a moment or two, encourages Eames to roll over onto his back. He kisses down Eames' chest, pausing to blow a raspberry over Eames' navel and make him laugh, before wrapping his lips around cock.
Eames smoothes the hair back from Arthur's face. It's getting long again. He feels hazy and content, half-asleep. Arthur bobs up and down, pushes two fingers inside Eames' arse again. Arthur's fingers aren't cold, perhaps warmed by the heat of Eames' body, by their exertions together.
"I'm going to come," Eames says.
Arthur pulls back and licks at the slit, then dives forward and sucks hard. Eames orgasms, caught in the irresistible pull of Arthur's gaze, the way he caresses and kisses and soothes Eames as if he-as if-
"That was..." Eames' voice is raspy. He can't seem to summon more words.
"Yeah." Arthur smiles, eyes crinkled up at the corners. "It was."
* * * * *
"Big house," Arthur comments as he surveys Eames' dreamscape. They're standing by the manor, ivy covered and not as imposing as Eames remembers. There are no projections, and everything is bathed in warm sunshine, a few puffy clouds overhead. Nary a trace of fog to be found.
That's not the only change to the landscape. Each of the formerly scruffy brown heather plants has come into full bloom, shades of lavender and mauve in every direction across the grounds.
"Yes," Eames replies, not sure whether to be unsettled by the changes or not. "It was. Is, I suppose."
"You lived by a river?" Arthur walks towards the water. Heather catches on his trousers.
"A stream, really," Eames says, following him towards the sparkling water, burbling gently over rocks and pebbles. A few hundred feet downstream, the stream abandons its flow along the ground and twists up into the air in a physics-defying reverse waterfall. It curls in several loops before settling down onto the ground and continuing on its way again.
"This is cool," Arthur says approvingly, walking round the water display, examining it from every angle.
"Yes, that was-not part of my childhood home," Eames says, unnecessarily, to mask his surprise. He has no idea where the paradoxical waterfall came from.
Arthur grins, the back of his hand bumping against Eames' as they walk. "Can we go inside?"
"I expect it'll be dusty and smell of bitterness," Eames says, slightly bemused by the request. The last person he'd brought to Scotland was Malaya, and that had been at her urging as well.
"Any projections around?"
"Probably not," Eames says, fervently hoping that's true. He does not want to hear what the projection of his mother has to say about Arthur. To Arthur.
They walk through the grand entrance, past windows shrouded in fragile curtains and ancient furniture hidden under dust covers. As Eames gives a brief tour, Arthur takes his hand and holds onto it.
They stop in front of a life-size family portrait of Eames and his parents.
"How old were you there?"
"Eleven. Hated sitting for this bloody thing. Seemed to drag on months, which I now suspect was due to my mother having an affair with the painter and my father with the assistant."
"Wholesome family fun." Arthur touches Eames' chin in the painting, then his father's. "You look like him."
"Yes, I am undoubtedly my father's child," Eames says. "To both my parents' everlasting regret."
"Hm." Arthur releases Eames' hand and puts it on his arse, instead. "Want to go do it in your parents' bedroom?"
That startles a chuckle out of Eames. "You are depraved." Then, "Yes."
* * * * *
When they wake up, again, Arthur says, "Thank you for showing me."
"It was nothing," Eames lies.
Arthur kisses Eames' nose.
* * * * *
Dear Eames,
As I am sure you are aware, I recently met with Grandmother. I stayed at the estate in Scotland, which was very beautiful and chillier than I expected.
I wanted to write and thank you for making the introduction between us. I also wished to apologize for any bother I might have caused you in the past few months. In retrospect, I may not have gone about trying to meet you in the best manner.
I know it's certainly not an excuse for the way I acted, but I had hoped that meeting you and seeing where you came from would have given me a better idea of what I want from life. What I want to do, whether I want to marry or have children, what my purpose on earth might be. Our interactions have provoked more questions rather than providing the answers I had hoped for.
I will be returning to university at the beginning of next term. If you should like to visit and see the grounds, I will be there. Percy is welcome as well.
Sincerely,
Tansy
* * * * *
One of the best and worst features of aging is the realization that the only answers to life's more inscrutable questions are the ones we create for ourselves. It can be a distinct disappointment, as well as a tremendous relief.
-E
* * * * *
"Baby, have you seen my brown embossed belt with the round buckle?" Arthur asks while rummaging through the closet. "I can only find my black embossed belt with the square buckle."
Eames blinks at the endearment. "I'm fairly certain it's in the pile you left on the bathroom floor. Also, 'baby?'"
"I didn't see it in there," Arthurs replies. "Do you want me to call you 'daddy' instead?"
Eames shudders, "Don't jest about that."
"You are a daddy, though," Arthur deadpans. "A sexy daddy."
"Dear god, stop."
"And if your daughter has children, you'll be a sexy granddaddy," Arthur continues as Eames buries his head in a pillow and attempts to suffocate himself.
"Kill me," Eames says. "Kill me before I become a decrepit, balding granddaddy with delusions of sex appeal."
"It's been over eight years and you still make my cock hard." Arthur pulls the pillow away from Eames with no mercy. "Besides, I have it on good authority that silver foxes can be very sexy."
"That may be the sweetest thing you have ever said to me," Eames says. "Now smother me with this pillow so I may be middle-aged and beautiful forever."
"I would, but I draw the kink line at necrophilia," Arthur says, only the corner of his mouth twitching. He touches Eames' ear, voice dropping lower. "Besides, we both know what you really are. Who's my good puppy?"
Eames feels a blush spread from his forehead to his ears and down his neck. Arthur can likely feel the heat of it. "I am," he mutters. "But only in private."
Arthur bends down to give Eames a kiss. "Of course. Only for me."
Eames kisses back, already eager for warmth and approval. He doesn't allow himself to sink too deeply into it, however, clearing his throat and pulling back to more practical matters. "That reminds me--about the fursuits. I found a place to rent them. We needn't commit any serious funds to this endeavor."
"Okay, good," Arthur says, and then, "What, uh. What animals should we be?"
"Oh." Eames hadn't given the topic much thought. "I suppose I might be a-I don't know, a panda. Smanda the Panda."
"A panda. Named Smanda."
"Yes. And you can be whatever animal speaks to you," Eames replies, feeling magnanimous.
"Okay." Arthur chuckles and shakes his head. "Fursuits is the last kink, right?"
"Yes, that's correct," Eames says as the finality of it hits him all at once. He's alive in his early-forties, and will complete his sex bucket list. With Arthur. Who will be free to disappear into the ether once their contract of sorts is finished.
"Unless you've forgotten anything," Arthur says. "On the list."
Eames opens his mouth, searching. Everything he's wanted to try, he's done with Arthur or someone else. Anything else he can think of-he has no immediate interest in. "Should be the last," Eames says. "And then you're off the hook."
Arthur blinks once, looks away. Eames could try to read his expression, but doesn't. He's not sure what he'll find there. "Right. Guess that works both ways. You'll be good to--you won't have to follow me around anymore."
"Maybe I'll take a job."
"Yeah, I've got some offers in the works," Arthur says, voice taking on a brusque, professional tinge Eames hasn't heard directed at him in-a very long time. "I know a few teams that could use a thief or forger. If you're interested."
Eames tries to imagine parting ways with Arthur for months. Years. It's not as if they've evolved into a formal sort of partnership. Arthur has been very adamant regarding his policy on relationships.
Perhaps they'll drift apart without the novelty and excitement of a bucket list to keep them together. Perhaps Arthur will run back into Sudheer's sculpted, psychotic arms and finally marry him.
The most likely scenario is that Arthur and Eames return to colleagues with a sexual acquaintanceship. It worked perfectly well for eight years, after all. The notion doesn't fill Eames with satisfaction, the way it once did.
"Sure," Eames says, imagining Arthur staring adoringly into Sudheer's eyes and murmuring, I love you, baby. It turns Eames' stomach inside out.
Arthur reaches behind Eames' head to grab something dangling off the headboard. "Hey, found my belt."
* * * * *
"Maybe I should leave first," Eames says, "Before we engage in this absurdity with the fursuits."
"Didn't you try cutting things off with Arthur before?" Federico replies, rolling around in a patch of heather. "It made you very maudlin."
"I'm very maudlin right now," Eames says. "It's the height of insanity to develop feelings for someone who has explicitly stated he doesn't want a relationship and is far too damaged to reciprocate properly."
"I thought you didn't want a relationship either."
"I didn't. I don't."
"Why don't you try saying that again," Federico suggests. "Perhaps it will sound more convincing the second time around."
"Ugh." Eames sprawls on the bank of the burbling stream and stares up at the paradoxical waterfall. "He's nothing but a prancing American peacock. I could find another in two minutes flat. I don't need him."
"Hm," is all Federico says as he breaks off a sprig of heather and tickles Eames' ear with it.
* * * * *
"Nice pants," Hyori says as she joins him in strolling through the park. "That's a good color on you."
"Thank you," Eames replies. The trousers in question are a dark green that flatters his tan complexion, and snug enough to make his arse look magnificent. Arthur bought them, of course.
"How was North Korea?" Eames asks after they kiss a quick hello.
"Oh, you know. A shithole," she replies, shrugging. "I keep waking up in the middle of the night paranoid about being watched. Hope that particular side effect of the job goes away soon."
"Well, I'll do my best to help keep the nightmares away." Eames touches the small of her back meaningfully.
"Can't have nightmares if I don't sleep, right?"
"So the thought goes," Eames says, dipping in for another friendly kiss, which leads to a deeper kiss, and then enjoyable sex back at Hyori's hotel room.
Afterwards, they relax companionably together. "How've you been?" she asks "Still on hiatus from dreamshare?"
"Yes." Eames stretches. "Doing nothing has been tremendously invigorating."
"Well, let me know when you're ready to get back to work. I've got a few projects on the horizon, both short and long term. I think your skill-set would be a great fit."
"Easy work?" he queries, interest piqued. He hasn't had the opportunity to use his Asian languages much recently.
"Some. But I've got challenging stuff lined up, too--a few interesting puzzles that could use your perspective."
"I feel as though you're attempting to woo me."
"Maybe I am," Hyori says. "Are big payouts enough to lure you out of vacation?"
"I'm open to offers," he says, a bit startled at his own eagerness for fresh work. It has been quite a few months since inception-nearly a year. "Forward me some timeframes and monetary estimates."
"That's what I like to hear." She grins. "Speaking of which, I finally got word on the inception job."
"Oh?" Eames asks, voice casual as he sits up and begins to search for his clothing.
"The whole thing originated with some bored billionaire." Hyori rolls her eyes. "Typical. He was chasing after a married woman and hired a team to incept the husband into divorcing her. The job went bad and the husband ended up with some kind of chicken complex."
"Chicken complex?" Eames repeats, not sure he's hearing correctly.
"But the inception technically took, so the team got paid," she continues. "Though it makes sense that they'd want to keep the details as hush hush as possible, considering how it all shook out."
"Indeed." Of all the rumors to catch on... "Any word on who was part of the team?"
"Oh, everyone and his mother is trying to claim credit for inception now, even if it was a botched one," Hyori says. "Doesn't really matter to me who did it at this point. Who cares about a semi-successful inception? Give it a few years-there'll be another soon enough."
* * * * *
"Do you ever think about..." Eames trails off, not quite sure how to continue.
"What'd you say? I couldn't hear," Arthur shouts back from inside the loo.
"Nothing, nevermind," Eames yells back, deciding he'll wait for a more opportune moment.
* * * * *
"About your flats," Eames starts.
"Huh?" Arthur replies, distracted by a news report on the television. A video of Robert Fischer fills the screen-he's giving a press conference about splitting Fischer-Morrow into pieces. "Did you say something?"
"Nevermind," Eames says, relieved.
* * * * *
"During our jobs," Eames says and halts, waiting for Arthur to reply with a distracted grunt.
Arthur looks up from his tablet and says, "Yeah?"
"Oh," Eames says, caught out and unprepared for the continuation of this conversation. "Will you be, ah, carrying all six of your mobile phones with you?"
"Yeah. You can use the usual one to reach me, unless it's an emergency. Then use the emergency one, though I'll probably pick up if you call me regardless." Arthur smiles, in a way Eames fancies as fond.
"Sounds reasonable," Eames says. "Will you be-calling much? You know I'm wretched when it comes to remembering to charge my mobile. If I know to expect your calls, I'll make a note to be more consistent about it."
"I don't know. Probably depends on how busy I am. If work is crazy, I'll probably text." Arthur stands up and begins clearing the kitchen table.
"Right," Eames says, with no more answers than what he started with. "I received an offer for a job with Hyori Kim in a few weeks."
"I heard about that-Chicago, right?"
"Yes."
"Feel free to stay at my apartment if you take it. You have the security access codes already." Arthur pauses. "Will you be seeing that guy again?"
"Who?"
"The cute one. Kenji." Arthur examines his fingernails with studied indifference.
"Oh, Kenji." Eames raises an eyebrow, suppresses a smile. "I was considering it. What do you think?"
"It's your decision, obviously. But seems like he could get a little needy." Arthur shrugs. "Your call if you think it's worth it, though."
"Hm," Eames says, noncommittal.
"And you know you're welcome here anytime if you're in between jobs," Arthur says, gesturing at the flat around them. "I like the idea of coming back to find you here."
"Naked?"
"Well, I was thinking of you sleeping or reading a book on the couch, but naked works." Arthur grins.
"What you really want is a homecoming with easy sex and a warm body," Eames says, mood souring abruptly.
"Not just any warm body." Arthur's smile falters when Eames doesn't respond in kind.
It's not that Eames can't understand the appeal: someone lovely waiting at home, ready to sit up and say hello, you've been missed. Does it much matter who that person is?
"And Sudheer?"
"Sudheer wouldn't-" Arthur halts. "I don't think it's very likely you'd be in the same place at the same time."
"If the purpose is to see you, I imagine it's extremely likely we'll be in the same place at the same time."
Arthur's lips purse. "Maybe. Maybe you two could communicate directly with each other to avoid any-potential conflicts."
"Am I to negotiate for holidays and weekends like parents squabbling over custody?"
"I don't know, do you have any better ideas?" Arthur sounds frustrated and Eames thinks: good. Let him be frustrated.
"I'm not sure it's worth the bother when we're not even-" Arthur freezes and Eames takes a deep breath before continuing. "What are we, Arthur?"
"We're-we're finishing your bucket list."
"Once that's finished. Then what?"
"Then we." Arthur swallows. "We see where we are. There's no point in rushing into-"
"Rushing? We've been sleeping together for nearly nine years. I hardly think anyone could be accused of rushing."
"That's exactly what I mean. We haven't needed to define-"
"Things are different, now. The way I feel has-" Eames stops. "I've changed."
"Well, I haven't. I told you at the outset, I've told you through the years. I don't want a relationship." Arthur stares down at the plate he's holding. "That's the deal you agreed to."
"Quite right," Eames says, a dull ache spreading across his chest.
"Anyway, I've worked with Hyori before. Great chemist, though I doubt she'd hire me again."
"Oh?" Eames says distantly, struggling to keep up with the conversation, the change of topic.
"Yeah, I was going through a rough patch." Arthur puts the last of the dishes into the sink and rubs the back of his neck. "Drama with Sudheer, drama with Aiden. I didn't handle it well."
"She's been quite curious about the rumors of inception going around."
"Yeah, I know. That's why I seeded a few rumors myself," Arthur replies. "I didn't expect chickenception to be the one that took."
That's startles a laugh out of Eames. "That was you?"
"Federico added a few embellishments, but yeah. That was me."
"And here I thought-" Eames stops.
"What? That I had no sense of humor? No imagination?"
Eames ducks his head, chagrined to hear his own oft-repeated and less than flattering descriptors of Arthur echoed back to him. "I was-I was an arse who didn't know what the hell he was talking about. Still doesn't, apparently."
"Yeah well." A gentle touch to Eames' jaw coaxes him into looking up. "We've both said some uncharitable things. It wasn't only you."
"I didn't know," Eames says, willing him to understand. "I didn't know, before."
"Neither of us did." Arthur leans forward for a kiss. When he moves to pull back, Eames surges up, fingers digging into the shirt fabric at Arthur's waist. Arthur gives him a quizzical look. "I'm supposed to be working today."
"Work will be waiting for you tomorrow. Or the day after. But I-" Eames stops himself at the unspoken-threat? promise?--he nearly utters.
A shadow crosses Arthur's face. "Let me reschedule a call. I'll meet you in five minutes."
Eames goes to the bedroom and tries to steady his breathing, not sure when it lost its easy cadence. He sits on the edge of the mattress, stands up, paces, sits again. He's debating taking his clothes off when Arthur reappears in the doorway.
Arthur regards Eames silently for a moment before crossing the room, pulling two items from the nightstand drawer: a small dildo and a bottle of lube. Arthur sets them down, shoulders tight. "I've been trying to, you know, loosen up."
"Darling." Eames reaches for Arthur, regrets uttering the word as soon as he says it. There's too much history there. Too many instances of mockery and condescension, too many layers of carefully cloaked defenses. "Arthur."
Arthur approaches, and rests his fingertips carefully on the edge of Eames' shoulders. "Do you want to do this? We can stick to our usual." He doesn't meet Eames' gaze.
"It's all I can think about," Eames lies, tilting forward to press his cheek against Arthur's abdomen. Underneath the scent of starch and the faintest whiff of cologne, Arthur smells warm and alive. For a moment, thoughts of sex vanish, leaving only the desire to stay like this for an age, an eon-for as long as Arthur will allow him.
"Baby." Arthur's fingers stroke the back of Eames' head, soothing.
Eames strips Arthur slowly, starting with his embossed black leather belt with a square buckle and moving onto crisply pressed trousers that end in bare feet. He noses against Arthur's soft cock through his briefs, eases the layer of cotton down.
Sucking a man to an erection isn't the same as putting your mouth on an already hard-or at least semi-hard--cock. There's a concern to it, a desire for desire, a pleasure derived from pleasure. Eames kisses the tip and feels exposed as Arthur watches him.
"Do you want me to direct you?" Arthur asks, quietly, and Eames ducks his face away, abruptly ashamed that he does. Angry at himself for the ravenous desire to please.
"Use your tongue on the underside," Arthur says. "Long strokes."
Eames complies after a brief hesitation. He's rewarded with a swell against his mouth and a heady rush that makes his own cock begin to fill.
"That's good," Arthur murmurs. "Now put your lips around the head and suck. Not too much pressure to start."
Eames follows Arthur's commands, takes Arthur's balls into his mouth, licks round the base of the shaft, busies his hands with stroking and fingering. A stream of praise flows from above him, approval that hardens Eames' cock, dampens the front of his trousers.
Eames loses himself in the hypnotic motion up and down, sucking and licking as Arthur's cock leaks down his throat. Arthur's tone changes to something firmer, "Eames."
Eames opens his eyes-which he didn't realize he'd closed-and stares up.
"Do you want to swallow my come?" Arthur asks, waiting for Eames' hoarse, pleading yes. "You can go to three fingers."
Eames takes a deep breath and eases a third finger in. He's already aching in the uncomfortable tent of his trousers. He can't imagine how he'll make it inside Arthur without coming immediately.
Arthur sighs when Eames finds his prostate, digs his nails into Eames' scalp. "I'm close, baby," he slurs. "God, that's it, you're so good-good at this, good to me-"
Eames swallows eagerly, feasting on Arthur's pleasure-drunk expression and gravelly moans. All it would take for Eames to follow him over is a thrust against Arthur's leg-
Eames forces himself back from the brink, focuses on drinking the last of Arthur's come, easing his fingers out. Arthur sags sideways onto the bed, panting.
Crawling up beside him, Eames licks the sheen of sweat from Arthur's neck, his Adam's Apple. Arthur tilts his head down for a kiss, sloppy with satiation.
"Take off your clothes and fuck me," Arthur commands, loose-limbed and indolent.
Eames peels out of his clothing, makes a show of it. Arthur watches through heavy-lidded eyes. Eames ends by thumbing Arthur's hopelessly wrinkled shirt open, pushes it out of the way to suck both nipples until Arthur shudders.
"How does this feel?" Eames tests the edge of Arthur's hole with a slicked finger.
"No soreness," Arthur replies, spreading his legs.
"Do you want to try the dildo first?"
"I'm ready for the main event." Arthur hooks the back of Eames' thighs with his heels, drags him forward. "Come here."
Eames climbs on top of Arthur, reaching for the condom. Rather than help him put it on, Arthur kisses Eames, thoroughly and deeply. Eames finds himself drifting away in it, in Arthur's closeness.
The kiss ends with Eames gasping for breath, fingers fumbling with the condom wrapper until Arthur takes it. He rolls it down, seeming unaware of how close Eames is to the edge, how all it would take is a wayward breeze.
Eames holds Arthur's legs open and guides himself in. Arthur exhales when the head is inside. It doesn't sound like pain.
Eames stops, sucks in a huge breath.
"Hey. Hi." Arthur cups Eames' cheek tenderly, as if Eames were the one in need of careful handling. "We're okay, right? We're okay."
Eames nods, something constricting in his chest as he eases further inside, monitors Arthur's face for pain. Once Eames is fully sheathed, he expects the constriction to ease but it doesn't, transforming into a panicky energy that spreads throughout his chest, his gut.
"Eames," Arthur whispers, chasing Eames' gaze until he catches it, locks it. "Will you kiss me?"
Eames nods again, shaky, and tries not to turn his face away. It's too intimate to kiss like this, to be inside Arthur, engulfed by him. Eames is drowning in want: wanting to rut mindlessly into release, wanting to make Arthur writhe with pleasure, wanting to stay absolutely still in this moment-
The kiss steals Eames' breath and doesn't return it. Arthur's hands run all over Eames' body-his back, his arms, his buttocks-and leave a searing trail behind, a brand. This isn't what it was supposed to be like. Eames is supposed to be the one comforting Arthur, guiding him through this, showing him how to allow Eames in.
"Wait," Eames says, leaning backwards, away. Their lower bodies remain flush, his cock still fully buried inside. "Are you-do you-"
"I'm okay. Doesn't hurt." Arthur blinks, as if he just realizes something. "You're inside me."
"Aren't you-" Eames summons the courage to meet Arthur's gaze. "Aren't you-"
"I'm terrified," Arthur replies, so low Eames can barely hear it. "But I want this. I want to try."
Eames finds Arthur's hand, weaves their fingers together. Then he steels himself and begins to move. The first thrust is slow, jerky. The second is an improvement. The third makes them both gasp.
"I'm so close," Eames practically whimpers.
"It's okay, baby," Arthur says, wrapping his legs round Eames' waist. "You don't have to hold back anymore."
Eames moans with relief and begins to thrust. He remembers to bring a hand to Arthur's cock, is surprised to find Arthur's hand there already, stroking. Their fingers tangle, and Arthur's legs tighten.
Eames tries to moderate his pace at first, nothing too rough, and loses control quickly. He wants to make it last, but he can't. The way Arthur feels is overwhelming: hot, tight, beautiful, perfect. None of it is how he'd imagined. Arthur should be the one on the edge of losing his mind, Eames should be the one steady and in control. How can Arthur claim to be frightened when Eames can feel the edge of a precipice, so close to falling--
"That's it, baby, right there, right there-"
Eames comes with a ragged shout, balls slapping obscenely against Arthur's arse. Pleasure passes through him like the crack of a whip, electrifying his spine and curling his toes.
He collapses onto Arthur gracelessly, numb fingers jammed against Arthur's hard cock.
"Fuck, baby." Arthur rolls Eames backwards onto the mattress, jacking his dick urgently. "I love watching you come on top of me."
Sleep threatens to take Eames at any moment. He wills his eyelids to stay open and urges Arthur up to straddle his chest, leaking dick pointed at Eames' chin. Eames wants to help, tries to lean up to lick, but his orgasm-deadened limbs refuse to cooperate. All he manages is a clumsy thumb against Arthur's hole and parted lips before Arthur ejaculates, painting his face.
"Jesus Christ," Arthur mutters as he ducks down to kiss Eames' slack mouth, smear the come over Eames' cheeks and eyebrows. "Fuck, your face, I-"
"S'good," Eames mumbles in between kisses. "I liked it."
"You were amazing," Arthur says, cradling Eames' face. "Fucking amazing."
Eames hums in contentment. He did well. He pleased Arthur.
* * * * *
"Don't," Eames warns his projection. "Don't say it."
Federico spreads his arms and shrugs. "What is there to say?"
* * * * *
"Mother," Eames answers the phone.
"I met that girl of yours," she replies with no preamble.
"Yes, I heard."
"She was not as bad as I expected."
"I had absolutely nothing to do with that, I can assure you," Eames says.
"No, indeed not." His mother is silent a moment. "You'll tell her she can visit again."
"You can tell her yourself."
"I suppose." Another pause. "And if you should like to visit."
"We'll see," he says. "Goodbye, Mother."
* * * * *
"Hello, darling," Eames says, rather softer and more dreamily than he'd liked. He has to stymie the urge to touch the dimple that appears in Arthur's cheek and good lord, he is entirely besotted.
"Hey you," Arthur answers, favoring Eames with a smile as he sits up.
"Working on the gardens?"
"No." Arthur's smile disappears. "I'm working on a preliminary build for a job."
"You have a job in the field?" Eames tries to mask surprise and what he suspects is dismay with casual curiosity. It mostly works.
"Small gig in Venezuela. Actually," Arthur pauses in the midst of removing his cannula, "I could use a second opinion on some architectural features. Would you be willing to do a quick walkthrough of my build?"
"Of course," Eames says, wondering if there's any room on the job. He's a man of many skills, able to fill several roles on a team, able to translate. He could go to Venezuela.
* * * * *
There's a fine rain angling into Eames' eyes. He blinks away the mist, walking onto the temple roof where a towering forest used to reside. The trees have been cut, burnt remains piled together. Aside from that, the ground is smooth and level now, no more twisted fragments of trees jagging up towards the sky. The soil is a deep sooty black, mixed with swirls of pale ash.
"What are you going to plant?" Eames asks, surveying the desolate landscape.
"I don't know. Who knows if anything will grow after all this." Arthur kicks up some leaves and they disintegrate into dust. "Why are we here? I didn't-I'm supposed to be showing you my build, not garden leftovers."
"It seems your subconscious insisted," Eames says, not unsympathetic.
Arthur scowls. "My subconscious can shove it."
Eames chuckles, squatting down and running his fingers through the soil. Despite its appearance, it feels rich, ready for life. "When you discover the secret to leashing a rogue subconscious, please do share. I'll be first in line for a muzzle."
Arthur doesn't reply. He's staring blankly into the distance, seeming to have forgotten Eames' presence.
Eames could walk away, leave him to his thoughts. Eames could shoot himself out of the dream. He doesn't need to involve himself any further in Arthur's private business.
"Arthur," Eames says. "Are you alright?"
"Aiden doesn't want me in his life." All at once, the petulant anger seems to drain like pus from a wound, leaving a weary resignation behind. "All these years, I've been deluding myself. Working towards-nothing."
"What you've built here isn't nothing. The building, the gardens, the weather patterns--I've never seen anything like it."
"There's weather. So what? Without Aiden I'm-" Arthur closes his eyes. "I'm all alone."
Eames stares at the severe line of Arthur's neck. "Are you?"
Arthur opens his eyes after a long minute. "I would have thought you'd be the existential kind. Born alone, die alone kind of thing."
"I used to be. But I've been reconsidering." Eames touches the small of Arthur's back, careful. "Perhaps it doesn't have to be that way. We can't control how we're born, but we can influence how we live. Perhaps how we die."
Arthur looks at Eames. "How do you want to live?"
"I've used up half my mortal lifespan and then some, if you count dreams. Most of it has been a tumultuous waste, and I've no one to blame for that besides myself. I'd like the second half to be-better."
"Better," Arthur echoes. "What does that mean, exactly?"
"Do you know that Malaya and I never fought? I used to regard it as a point of pride, as all my parents did was fight," Eames says. "It didn't mean we weren't unhappy-I simply buried my dissatisfaction in alcohol while Malaya would try to broach the matter in conversation. She'd complain and I would get angry-wondering why she had to ruin our perfectly civilized silent hostility with direct confrontation. I'd refuse to talk about it, going as far as leaving the flat for a day or two. I was punishing her quite pettily, but I also comforted myself with the notion that I was protecting her from my anger. Really, the only one I was protecting was myself."
Arthur stares down at Eames' hand and, for a brief moment, reaches as if he were going to take it. Then his fingers curl away. "If you could go back and do it differently, would you?"
"I used to torment myself with those sorts of questions. Never sober, but I spent several years avoiding sobriety as much as possible after she left me." Eames notes that Arthur's arms are crossed over his abdomen, as if protecting an injury. "I found regret and self-pity weren't especially effective in luring ex-wives into second chances."
"You gave up, then?" The words are gritted out.
"She's married and has the children she never wanted to have with me," Eames says, quietly. "She's happier with her new husband than she was with me-including when we were at our most functional, which wasn't very. Underneath the blazing chemistry and the fun we had, we weren't compatible. It simply took years and a failed marriage to realize it."
Arthur blinks. "Did you want them? Children?"
"When I was with her I would have done anything, however ill-advised. She made a good decision, not bothering with me. I wouldn't have been much of a parent." Eames corrects himself, dryly, "I'm not much of a parent."
"It's a different thing when your own DNA, your double, rejects you." Arthur shakes his head with a bitter smile. "I'm the fucking evil twin, you know."
"I've always found the evil twin to be the sexier one."
"You would."
"Everyone does. They're confident, self-assured in their nefarious ways, and don't give a damn what other people think," Eames says. "Also, they wear tighter clothing. Usually leather."
Arthur shakes his head again, some of the bitterness in his smile receding. "I do look great in leather."
"One day you'll have to show me." Eames bumps a shoulder against Arthur's. "Perhaps demonstrate your villainous laugh while you're at it."
Arthur pushes back. "If anyone has rehearsed a villainous laugh here, it's definitely you."
Eames smiles. "Maybe."
Arthur sighs and enfolds himself in Eames' arms, hooks his chin over Eames' shoulder. "This is going to get easier, isn't it?"
"Yes." Eames kisses the top of Arthur's head, a hint of dread rising amidst the frightening tenderness he feels. "Yes, it will."
* * * * *
"Still alive?" Eames asks.
"You know that between the two of us, you'll be the first to slip off the mortal coil," Tillery replies. "Why are you calling at this hour? You're never up this early in the morning."
"I have a question," Eames says, and steels himself. "After Malaya, I swore I'd never marry again."
"I remember," Tillery replies. "I have a lemur tattoo as a memento of that regrettable evening."
Eames chuckles. "Good thing we ran out of money before I could purchase the matching one."
"Good thing for you, you stupidly lucky sod," Tillery says. "Now what's this about?"
"I find myself in a sort of liminal state, the uncertainty of which is--well, it's bothering me more than I thought it would."
"You want something more permanent?"
"Not permanent, per se, but more substantial than what I've got," Eames says. "Arthur's--I mean, I have a few jobs coming up. Lucrative work. But it'll require me to visit some nasty places on my own. I wonder whether there'll be anything to return to after the job is over, do you understand?"
Tillery is silent long enough for Eames to check if the connection has been lost. At last, he says, "I'm hardly the expert on these matters, as my four ex-wives will tell you at length. I can't say what you should do, but I can tell you that it's a rotten feeling waiting and hoping for someone who doesn't want to be with you. It's no way to live."
"And what does one do in that sort of situation?" Eames asks, suspecting he'll not be pleased with the answer.
"Talk and be prepared to walk away," Tillery says, quietly. "If you don't, it'll eat away at your insides. Make you feel less of a man every day that passes. And the kicker is--they'll know. They already do."
* * * * *
Eames packs a bag and takes a few days away from Arthur's flat. To see how it feels. Because he can.
He remembers to bring money and sets up in a well-appointed hotel on the other side of Paris.
The first day away feels like nothing particular. Eames goes to the Parc de la Villette, eavesdrops on mundane conversations about the weather and work and children. He's eating a fruit tart for lunch when Arthur texts him about dinner plans, which Eames declines. He doesn't explain why.
In the evening, he chats up a pretty Chinese woman. They have sex in a bathroom before she returns to her tour group.
The following day, Eames goes to the Musée d'Orsay, walks through an exhibition on the male nude within Western art, and enjoys it immensely. Afterwards, he picks up a nosebleed seat to the opera. During intermission, there's an innocuous text from Arthur with the subtext of: have you been kidnapped and are you okay?
Eames answers with something reassuring and returns to the opera. He sleeps alone.
The next morning, he wakes up with a sizable erection and scours his memory for suitable masturbatory material. There was that one foursome he had several years ago with a group of nubile young women, filled with sucking and fucking and all the stuff wet dreams are made of.
He's about three-quarters of the way to orgasm when his mind drifts from pussies and breasts to a more recent memory. In this memory, Eames has his mouth on bollocks, two fingers up Arthur's arse.
Eames tries to push the mental image away, return to his foursome. But there's the way Arthur had stared down at him, apprehensive and vulnerable as Eames had eased one finger inside. His moan had been so gorgeous when Eames found his prostate, his legs spreading minutely as Eames eased a second finger in.
Eames jerks himself harder as he remembers how Arthur sighed, fingers stroking through Eames' hair. Eames licked and sucked at Arthur's balls, savored them, moaned when Arthur came from that and two fingers.
"Come here, baby," Arthur murmured after, reaching out. Eames crawled up for a kiss, warm and content.
Eames comes to the memory of Arthur's kisses, his pants. It's pathetic, really-of all things to fantasize about. Arthur. Making Arthur come.
Days pass. Eames sleeps with a few more strangers and resolutely does not think about Arthur again.
Arthur doesn't try to contact Eames further, having either forgotten about him or determined that Eames wants to be left alone. Eames refuses to initiate any contact, and refuses to think about it.
* * * * *
After barely a week away, Eames misses Arthur abominably and it depresses him beyond words. Time alone has forced Eames to confront a truth he'd been hoping to avoid: that what he currently has with Arthur isn't enough anymore. That Eames wants a proper relationship. And according to Tillery, the useless bastard, there's nothing to be done except talk about it. With Arthur.
He slinks into the flat mid-afternoon, ready to crawl into bed for a wank amidst Arthur-scented sheets and self-pity. He's not sure why he didn't expect Arthur to be working from home--some vague notion about him being out for lunch with a contact, perhaps--but home Arthur is.
"Hullo," Eames murmurs, dropping his bag by the door and moving towards the bedroom.
"Hey." It's a single syllable, barely a word, and yet it stops Eames in mid-step when accompanied by the dazzling smile on Arthur's face. "You're back."
"I am." Eames tries to think of something clever to say and fails.
Arthur shuts his laptop and crosses the distance between them in what feels like a single stride. "Welcome back."
"Um," Eames says, already wrapped in Arthur's arms.
"I missed you." Arthur stares affectionately into Eames' eyes.
"And I, you," Eames says helplessly.
Arthur's smile grows, and Eames feels his own face ache in a reciprocal, slack-jawed expression. "Do you want to tell me about what you've been up to?"
Lazing about in a park feeding birds and listening to locals complain hardly qualifies as information worth sharing. Yet Eames finds himself telling Arthur about it all. How he fell asleep in the park and woke up to a pigeon trying to pry open his fingers to reach the last bit of fruit tart. How the hotel wallpaper had stripes that didn't quite line up at the corners, which drove him battier than he'd care to admit.
Even stranger is the way Arthur listens raptly, thumb stroking over Eames' knuckles. "I thought you looked tanner."
"Yeah," Eames replies, dazed. He wants to slap himself but can't muster the will to take his hands out of Arthur's.
"Hey, good news. I heard from the French government and they're going to let me keep the place." Dimples appear. "We should celebrate. How about a trip to the Virgin Islands? I've arranged our tickets."
"Sounds marvelous." Eames would probably agree to a jaunt to Antarctica at this point. "And congratulations."
"All due to your hard work. Which reminds me." Arthur takes a step backwards, tugging Eames along. "I want to show you something."
* * * * *
A familiar snake crawls over Eames: a huge, neon green boa constrictor. He blinks at it, momentarily frozen in place, lying prone on the ground. It seems to smirk at him, wrapping once round his neck and tightening for a horrifying instant before losing interest and slithering away.
"What the hell," Eames mutters as he stands, rubbing the bruises left behind.
He walks through a quiet temple filled with somber green plants. In contrast to Eames' heather fields, which had exploded into bloom and stayed that way since Arthur visited, nothing is in flower here.
Eames emerges onto the roof of the temple, girding himself for ruin or, perhaps worse, sheer emptiness.
"Hey," Arthur says, lowering a pair of pruning shears. "There you are."
"Hullo." Eames saunters over with as much nonchalance as he can muster while his eyes dart about in quiet wonder. The entire roof has been refilled-the trees are spindly young saplings yet, but most definitely growing.
"Let me show you what I planted," Arthur says, taking Eames by the wrist and tugging. Eames follows, utterly docile.
"It's a mix of a bunch of different species this time, because that's more resilient than having a monoculture," Arthur says, pointing at what Eames presumes are different types of trees, though they mostly look the same to him. "If bad weather or a pest hits, it won't kill them all. Some will survive."
"Most sensible," Eames agrees, wandering through rows of fresh plantings. Arthur chatters on about mulch and soil pH and pollinators while Eames nods. Arthur smells like tree sap and leaves. New life.
"This one's called the London Plane," Arthur says, stopping in front of a deciduous tree with bark that appears to be peeling off. "Every year it sheds its bark and rids itself of any pests that might have set up shop on it."
"It's not very pretty, is it?" Eames picks a piece of rough brown bark off to reveal mottled yellow and green underneath.
"The London Plane can grow all over the world, even in highly polluted urban areas." Arthur smiles as he plucks one of the bright green leaves, symmetrical and pointed. "I think it's beautiful."
Eames squints at it dubiously. "It sounds like a stripper name."
Arthur beams. "It does, doesn't it?"
Eames continues to stare at it, trying to see what Arthur sees.
"I couldn't have done it without you, you know," Arthur says, softly. "The apartment. Seeing Aiden. These gardens."
"You would've managed somehow," Eames says, thinking of Sudheer and that damn boa constrictor.
"Maybe," Arthur says. "You know, when we did our first job together, I thought I had you pegged. You were going to be the swashbuckling pain in my ass who assumed he could charm everyone with a James Bond accent and waltz off with all the credit. I was right, except for the part where you waltzed off with the credit. You never were a hog about that."
"Too much boasting makes you a target," Eames says, flexing his bad knee. "I learned that the hard way."
"I was pissed at myself for sleeping with you. My first day on the job and I'd already fucked a coworker." Arthur chuckles. "What was shittier was how much I wanted to do it again."
"You never said."
"I thought it'd be a bad idea. Didn't want to complicate things."
"Right," Eames says, the ache in his chest returning.
"I'm glad we did, though," Arthur says, voice strong and clear and deep. "I'm glad I picked you up in that shitty Mexican bar and that we fucked in Copenhagen after that. I'm glad-I'm glad you asked me to do this bucket list with you."
No regrets, Edith Piaf sings as the musical cue begins to play. How simple a life could be with no regrets.
Next: Chapter 10, Part b
Chapter 10: The Animal Song
Master post
Wordcount: 15,000
Eames opens his eyes to Arthur lying beside him, fully dressed and ready for a run.
"I've never seen anyone in dreamshare sleep as deeply as you do naturally," Arthur says.
"Dreamshare sleep voyeur, are we?"
"You'd be surprised by the number of people who ask me to watch their backs while they nap." Arthur smiles. "Apparently, I make people feel safe."
"I suppose you don't seem inclined to steal my secrets and exploit them," Eames says, consideringly. "Have you ever peeked?"
"No." Arthur chuckles wryly. "I see enough crazy shit on the job. I don't need to supplement that with whatever else people have going on in their recreational dreams."
Eames laughs. "True enough."
"You said you dream naturally," Arthur says. "What do you dream about?"
"Nothing terribly interesting, I'm afraid."
"Yeah? You do math problems or something?"
"You know I'm dreadful at maths." Eames pauses for a chuckle, but Arthur simply waits for him to continue. "I dream of my parents' estate in Scotland. Every now and again."
"What's it like?"
"Quite dull. Nothing like your hanging gardens." When Arthur doesn't seem put off, Eames continues, somewhat reluctantly. "I--I don't suppose you'd like to pop in for a visit."
Another smile blossoms across Arthur's face, causing something to flutter inside Eames. It's a patently absurd thing to feel. He's far too old for butterflies. "I'd like that."
Eames had intended it as an empty offer, a courtesy tossed into the air to be politely acknowledged and never acted upon. The distressing part isn't that Arthur said yes, it's that Eames now feels the desire to reveal himself to Arthur. To bare himself. Eames tucks his face back into a pillow and tries not to think about it.
"I like the way you wake up," Arthur says, laying kisses along the back of Eames' ear, his neck. "That makes me sound like even more of a creep, huh?"
"A tad." Eames yawns and spreads his legs, pushing his arse up as a clear invitation.
"You always seem so serene, like you're coming out of a great dream." Arthur hesitates for an instant. "Like you're happy to see me."
Eames blinks into the pillowcase, his eyelashes catching in the weave of the fabric. "I am-happy."
Arthur slicks him and slips in, continues to press kisses along Eames' shoulders and back.
"You feel good," Arthur whispers as he begins to thrust. He runs his palms over the length of Eames' arms.
Eames hums in response, his own dick growing erect. It's a nice angle, a soft brush against the prostate accompanying the fullness of Arthur inside, the gentle friction of Eames' cock against the sheets. Eames isn't overly concerned with coming-is content with the feel of Arthur's lips against his skin, his cool fingers intertwined with Eames'.
Arthur comes with a throaty grunt and, after a moment or two, encourages Eames to roll over onto his back. He kisses down Eames' chest, pausing to blow a raspberry over Eames' navel and make him laugh, before wrapping his lips around cock.
Eames smoothes the hair back from Arthur's face. It's getting long again. He feels hazy and content, half-asleep. Arthur bobs up and down, pushes two fingers inside Eames' arse again. Arthur's fingers aren't cold, perhaps warmed by the heat of Eames' body, by their exertions together.
"I'm going to come," Eames says.
Arthur pulls back and licks at the slit, then dives forward and sucks hard. Eames orgasms, caught in the irresistible pull of Arthur's gaze, the way he caresses and kisses and soothes Eames as if he-as if-
"That was..." Eames' voice is raspy. He can't seem to summon more words.
"Yeah." Arthur smiles, eyes crinkled up at the corners. "It was."
* * * * *
"Big house," Arthur comments as he surveys Eames' dreamscape. They're standing by the manor, ivy covered and not as imposing as Eames remembers. There are no projections, and everything is bathed in warm sunshine, a few puffy clouds overhead. Nary a trace of fog to be found.
That's not the only change to the landscape. Each of the formerly scruffy brown heather plants has come into full bloom, shades of lavender and mauve in every direction across the grounds.
"Yes," Eames replies, not sure whether to be unsettled by the changes or not. "It was. Is, I suppose."
"You lived by a river?" Arthur walks towards the water. Heather catches on his trousers.
"A stream, really," Eames says, following him towards the sparkling water, burbling gently over rocks and pebbles. A few hundred feet downstream, the stream abandons its flow along the ground and twists up into the air in a physics-defying reverse waterfall. It curls in several loops before settling down onto the ground and continuing on its way again.
"This is cool," Arthur says approvingly, walking round the water display, examining it from every angle.
"Yes, that was-not part of my childhood home," Eames says, unnecessarily, to mask his surprise. He has no idea where the paradoxical waterfall came from.
Arthur grins, the back of his hand bumping against Eames' as they walk. "Can we go inside?"
"I expect it'll be dusty and smell of bitterness," Eames says, slightly bemused by the request. The last person he'd brought to Scotland was Malaya, and that had been at her urging as well.
"Any projections around?"
"Probably not," Eames says, fervently hoping that's true. He does not want to hear what the projection of his mother has to say about Arthur. To Arthur.
They walk through the grand entrance, past windows shrouded in fragile curtains and ancient furniture hidden under dust covers. As Eames gives a brief tour, Arthur takes his hand and holds onto it.
They stop in front of a life-size family portrait of Eames and his parents.
"How old were you there?"
"Eleven. Hated sitting for this bloody thing. Seemed to drag on months, which I now suspect was due to my mother having an affair with the painter and my father with the assistant."
"Wholesome family fun." Arthur touches Eames' chin in the painting, then his father's. "You look like him."
"Yes, I am undoubtedly my father's child," Eames says. "To both my parents' everlasting regret."
"Hm." Arthur releases Eames' hand and puts it on his arse, instead. "Want to go do it in your parents' bedroom?"
That startles a chuckle out of Eames. "You are depraved." Then, "Yes."
* * * * *
When they wake up, again, Arthur says, "Thank you for showing me."
"It was nothing," Eames lies.
Arthur kisses Eames' nose.
* * * * *
Dear Eames,
As I am sure you are aware, I recently met with Grandmother. I stayed at the estate in Scotland, which was very beautiful and chillier than I expected.
I wanted to write and thank you for making the introduction between us. I also wished to apologize for any bother I might have caused you in the past few months. In retrospect, I may not have gone about trying to meet you in the best manner.
I know it's certainly not an excuse for the way I acted, but I had hoped that meeting you and seeing where you came from would have given me a better idea of what I want from life. What I want to do, whether I want to marry or have children, what my purpose on earth might be. Our interactions have provoked more questions rather than providing the answers I had hoped for.
I will be returning to university at the beginning of next term. If you should like to visit and see the grounds, I will be there. Percy is welcome as well.
Sincerely,
Tansy
* * * * *
One of the best and worst features of aging is the realization that the only answers to life's more inscrutable questions are the ones we create for ourselves. It can be a distinct disappointment, as well as a tremendous relief.
-E
* * * * *
"Baby, have you seen my brown embossed belt with the round buckle?" Arthur asks while rummaging through the closet. "I can only find my black embossed belt with the square buckle."
Eames blinks at the endearment. "I'm fairly certain it's in the pile you left on the bathroom floor. Also, 'baby?'"
"I didn't see it in there," Arthurs replies. "Do you want me to call you 'daddy' instead?"
Eames shudders, "Don't jest about that."
"You are a daddy, though," Arthur deadpans. "A sexy daddy."
"Dear god, stop."
"And if your daughter has children, you'll be a sexy granddaddy," Arthur continues as Eames buries his head in a pillow and attempts to suffocate himself.
"Kill me," Eames says. "Kill me before I become a decrepit, balding granddaddy with delusions of sex appeal."
"It's been over eight years and you still make my cock hard." Arthur pulls the pillow away from Eames with no mercy. "Besides, I have it on good authority that silver foxes can be very sexy."
"That may be the sweetest thing you have ever said to me," Eames says. "Now smother me with this pillow so I may be middle-aged and beautiful forever."
"I would, but I draw the kink line at necrophilia," Arthur says, only the corner of his mouth twitching. He touches Eames' ear, voice dropping lower. "Besides, we both know what you really are. Who's my good puppy?"
Eames feels a blush spread from his forehead to his ears and down his neck. Arthur can likely feel the heat of it. "I am," he mutters. "But only in private."
Arthur bends down to give Eames a kiss. "Of course. Only for me."
Eames kisses back, already eager for warmth and approval. He doesn't allow himself to sink too deeply into it, however, clearing his throat and pulling back to more practical matters. "That reminds me--about the fursuits. I found a place to rent them. We needn't commit any serious funds to this endeavor."
"Okay, good," Arthur says, and then, "What, uh. What animals should we be?"
"Oh." Eames hadn't given the topic much thought. "I suppose I might be a-I don't know, a panda. Smanda the Panda."
"A panda. Named Smanda."
"Yes. And you can be whatever animal speaks to you," Eames replies, feeling magnanimous.
"Okay." Arthur chuckles and shakes his head. "Fursuits is the last kink, right?"
"Yes, that's correct," Eames says as the finality of it hits him all at once. He's alive in his early-forties, and will complete his sex bucket list. With Arthur. Who will be free to disappear into the ether once their contract of sorts is finished.
"Unless you've forgotten anything," Arthur says. "On the list."
Eames opens his mouth, searching. Everything he's wanted to try, he's done with Arthur or someone else. Anything else he can think of-he has no immediate interest in. "Should be the last," Eames says. "And then you're off the hook."
Arthur blinks once, looks away. Eames could try to read his expression, but doesn't. He's not sure what he'll find there. "Right. Guess that works both ways. You'll be good to--you won't have to follow me around anymore."
"Maybe I'll take a job."
"Yeah, I've got some offers in the works," Arthur says, voice taking on a brusque, professional tinge Eames hasn't heard directed at him in-a very long time. "I know a few teams that could use a thief or forger. If you're interested."
Eames tries to imagine parting ways with Arthur for months. Years. It's not as if they've evolved into a formal sort of partnership. Arthur has been very adamant regarding his policy on relationships.
Perhaps they'll drift apart without the novelty and excitement of a bucket list to keep them together. Perhaps Arthur will run back into Sudheer's sculpted, psychotic arms and finally marry him.
The most likely scenario is that Arthur and Eames return to colleagues with a sexual acquaintanceship. It worked perfectly well for eight years, after all. The notion doesn't fill Eames with satisfaction, the way it once did.
"Sure," Eames says, imagining Arthur staring adoringly into Sudheer's eyes and murmuring, I love you, baby. It turns Eames' stomach inside out.
Arthur reaches behind Eames' head to grab something dangling off the headboard. "Hey, found my belt."
* * * * *
"Maybe I should leave first," Eames says, "Before we engage in this absurdity with the fursuits."
"Didn't you try cutting things off with Arthur before?" Federico replies, rolling around in a patch of heather. "It made you very maudlin."
"I'm very maudlin right now," Eames says. "It's the height of insanity to develop feelings for someone who has explicitly stated he doesn't want a relationship and is far too damaged to reciprocate properly."
"I thought you didn't want a relationship either."
"I didn't. I don't."
"Why don't you try saying that again," Federico suggests. "Perhaps it will sound more convincing the second time around."
"Ugh." Eames sprawls on the bank of the burbling stream and stares up at the paradoxical waterfall. "He's nothing but a prancing American peacock. I could find another in two minutes flat. I don't need him."
"Hm," is all Federico says as he breaks off a sprig of heather and tickles Eames' ear with it.
* * * * *
"Nice pants," Hyori says as she joins him in strolling through the park. "That's a good color on you."
"Thank you," Eames replies. The trousers in question are a dark green that flatters his tan complexion, and snug enough to make his arse look magnificent. Arthur bought them, of course.
"How was North Korea?" Eames asks after they kiss a quick hello.
"Oh, you know. A shithole," she replies, shrugging. "I keep waking up in the middle of the night paranoid about being watched. Hope that particular side effect of the job goes away soon."
"Well, I'll do my best to help keep the nightmares away." Eames touches the small of her back meaningfully.
"Can't have nightmares if I don't sleep, right?"
"So the thought goes," Eames says, dipping in for another friendly kiss, which leads to a deeper kiss, and then enjoyable sex back at Hyori's hotel room.
Afterwards, they relax companionably together. "How've you been?" she asks "Still on hiatus from dreamshare?"
"Yes." Eames stretches. "Doing nothing has been tremendously invigorating."
"Well, let me know when you're ready to get back to work. I've got a few projects on the horizon, both short and long term. I think your skill-set would be a great fit."
"Easy work?" he queries, interest piqued. He hasn't had the opportunity to use his Asian languages much recently.
"Some. But I've got challenging stuff lined up, too--a few interesting puzzles that could use your perspective."
"I feel as though you're attempting to woo me."
"Maybe I am," Hyori says. "Are big payouts enough to lure you out of vacation?"
"I'm open to offers," he says, a bit startled at his own eagerness for fresh work. It has been quite a few months since inception-nearly a year. "Forward me some timeframes and monetary estimates."
"That's what I like to hear." She grins. "Speaking of which, I finally got word on the inception job."
"Oh?" Eames asks, voice casual as he sits up and begins to search for his clothing.
"The whole thing originated with some bored billionaire." Hyori rolls her eyes. "Typical. He was chasing after a married woman and hired a team to incept the husband into divorcing her. The job went bad and the husband ended up with some kind of chicken complex."
"Chicken complex?" Eames repeats, not sure he's hearing correctly.
"But the inception technically took, so the team got paid," she continues. "Though it makes sense that they'd want to keep the details as hush hush as possible, considering how it all shook out."
"Indeed." Of all the rumors to catch on... "Any word on who was part of the team?"
"Oh, everyone and his mother is trying to claim credit for inception now, even if it was a botched one," Hyori says. "Doesn't really matter to me who did it at this point. Who cares about a semi-successful inception? Give it a few years-there'll be another soon enough."
* * * * *
"Do you ever think about..." Eames trails off, not quite sure how to continue.
"What'd you say? I couldn't hear," Arthur shouts back from inside the loo.
"Nothing, nevermind," Eames yells back, deciding he'll wait for a more opportune moment.
* * * * *
"About your flats," Eames starts.
"Huh?" Arthur replies, distracted by a news report on the television. A video of Robert Fischer fills the screen-he's giving a press conference about splitting Fischer-Morrow into pieces. "Did you say something?"
"Nevermind," Eames says, relieved.
* * * * *
"During our jobs," Eames says and halts, waiting for Arthur to reply with a distracted grunt.
Arthur looks up from his tablet and says, "Yeah?"
"Oh," Eames says, caught out and unprepared for the continuation of this conversation. "Will you be, ah, carrying all six of your mobile phones with you?"
"Yeah. You can use the usual one to reach me, unless it's an emergency. Then use the emergency one, though I'll probably pick up if you call me regardless." Arthur smiles, in a way Eames fancies as fond.
"Sounds reasonable," Eames says. "Will you be-calling much? You know I'm wretched when it comes to remembering to charge my mobile. If I know to expect your calls, I'll make a note to be more consistent about it."
"I don't know. Probably depends on how busy I am. If work is crazy, I'll probably text." Arthur stands up and begins clearing the kitchen table.
"Right," Eames says, with no more answers than what he started with. "I received an offer for a job with Hyori Kim in a few weeks."
"I heard about that-Chicago, right?"
"Yes."
"Feel free to stay at my apartment if you take it. You have the security access codes already." Arthur pauses. "Will you be seeing that guy again?"
"Who?"
"The cute one. Kenji." Arthur examines his fingernails with studied indifference.
"Oh, Kenji." Eames raises an eyebrow, suppresses a smile. "I was considering it. What do you think?"
"It's your decision, obviously. But seems like he could get a little needy." Arthur shrugs. "Your call if you think it's worth it, though."
"Hm," Eames says, noncommittal.
"And you know you're welcome here anytime if you're in between jobs," Arthur says, gesturing at the flat around them. "I like the idea of coming back to find you here."
"Naked?"
"Well, I was thinking of you sleeping or reading a book on the couch, but naked works." Arthur grins.
"What you really want is a homecoming with easy sex and a warm body," Eames says, mood souring abruptly.
"Not just any warm body." Arthur's smile falters when Eames doesn't respond in kind.
It's not that Eames can't understand the appeal: someone lovely waiting at home, ready to sit up and say hello, you've been missed. Does it much matter who that person is?
"And Sudheer?"
"Sudheer wouldn't-" Arthur halts. "I don't think it's very likely you'd be in the same place at the same time."
"If the purpose is to see you, I imagine it's extremely likely we'll be in the same place at the same time."
Arthur's lips purse. "Maybe. Maybe you two could communicate directly with each other to avoid any-potential conflicts."
"Am I to negotiate for holidays and weekends like parents squabbling over custody?"
"I don't know, do you have any better ideas?" Arthur sounds frustrated and Eames thinks: good. Let him be frustrated.
"I'm not sure it's worth the bother when we're not even-" Arthur freezes and Eames takes a deep breath before continuing. "What are we, Arthur?"
"We're-we're finishing your bucket list."
"Once that's finished. Then what?"
"Then we." Arthur swallows. "We see where we are. There's no point in rushing into-"
"Rushing? We've been sleeping together for nearly nine years. I hardly think anyone could be accused of rushing."
"That's exactly what I mean. We haven't needed to define-"
"Things are different, now. The way I feel has-" Eames stops. "I've changed."
"Well, I haven't. I told you at the outset, I've told you through the years. I don't want a relationship." Arthur stares down at the plate he's holding. "That's the deal you agreed to."
"Quite right," Eames says, a dull ache spreading across his chest.
"Anyway, I've worked with Hyori before. Great chemist, though I doubt she'd hire me again."
"Oh?" Eames says distantly, struggling to keep up with the conversation, the change of topic.
"Yeah, I was going through a rough patch." Arthur puts the last of the dishes into the sink and rubs the back of his neck. "Drama with Sudheer, drama with Aiden. I didn't handle it well."
"She's been quite curious about the rumors of inception going around."
"Yeah, I know. That's why I seeded a few rumors myself," Arthur replies. "I didn't expect chickenception to be the one that took."
That's startles a laugh out of Eames. "That was you?"
"Federico added a few embellishments, but yeah. That was me."
"And here I thought-" Eames stops.
"What? That I had no sense of humor? No imagination?"
Eames ducks his head, chagrined to hear his own oft-repeated and less than flattering descriptors of Arthur echoed back to him. "I was-I was an arse who didn't know what the hell he was talking about. Still doesn't, apparently."
"Yeah well." A gentle touch to Eames' jaw coaxes him into looking up. "We've both said some uncharitable things. It wasn't only you."
"I didn't know," Eames says, willing him to understand. "I didn't know, before."
"Neither of us did." Arthur leans forward for a kiss. When he moves to pull back, Eames surges up, fingers digging into the shirt fabric at Arthur's waist. Arthur gives him a quizzical look. "I'm supposed to be working today."
"Work will be waiting for you tomorrow. Or the day after. But I-" Eames stops himself at the unspoken-threat? promise?--he nearly utters.
A shadow crosses Arthur's face. "Let me reschedule a call. I'll meet you in five minutes."
Eames goes to the bedroom and tries to steady his breathing, not sure when it lost its easy cadence. He sits on the edge of the mattress, stands up, paces, sits again. He's debating taking his clothes off when Arthur reappears in the doorway.
Arthur regards Eames silently for a moment before crossing the room, pulling two items from the nightstand drawer: a small dildo and a bottle of lube. Arthur sets them down, shoulders tight. "I've been trying to, you know, loosen up."
"Darling." Eames reaches for Arthur, regrets uttering the word as soon as he says it. There's too much history there. Too many instances of mockery and condescension, too many layers of carefully cloaked defenses. "Arthur."
Arthur approaches, and rests his fingertips carefully on the edge of Eames' shoulders. "Do you want to do this? We can stick to our usual." He doesn't meet Eames' gaze.
"It's all I can think about," Eames lies, tilting forward to press his cheek against Arthur's abdomen. Underneath the scent of starch and the faintest whiff of cologne, Arthur smells warm and alive. For a moment, thoughts of sex vanish, leaving only the desire to stay like this for an age, an eon-for as long as Arthur will allow him.
"Baby." Arthur's fingers stroke the back of Eames' head, soothing.
Eames strips Arthur slowly, starting with his embossed black leather belt with a square buckle and moving onto crisply pressed trousers that end in bare feet. He noses against Arthur's soft cock through his briefs, eases the layer of cotton down.
Sucking a man to an erection isn't the same as putting your mouth on an already hard-or at least semi-hard--cock. There's a concern to it, a desire for desire, a pleasure derived from pleasure. Eames kisses the tip and feels exposed as Arthur watches him.
"Do you want me to direct you?" Arthur asks, quietly, and Eames ducks his face away, abruptly ashamed that he does. Angry at himself for the ravenous desire to please.
"Use your tongue on the underside," Arthur says. "Long strokes."
Eames complies after a brief hesitation. He's rewarded with a swell against his mouth and a heady rush that makes his own cock begin to fill.
"That's good," Arthur murmurs. "Now put your lips around the head and suck. Not too much pressure to start."
Eames follows Arthur's commands, takes Arthur's balls into his mouth, licks round the base of the shaft, busies his hands with stroking and fingering. A stream of praise flows from above him, approval that hardens Eames' cock, dampens the front of his trousers.
Eames loses himself in the hypnotic motion up and down, sucking and licking as Arthur's cock leaks down his throat. Arthur's tone changes to something firmer, "Eames."
Eames opens his eyes-which he didn't realize he'd closed-and stares up.
"Do you want to swallow my come?" Arthur asks, waiting for Eames' hoarse, pleading yes. "You can go to three fingers."
Eames takes a deep breath and eases a third finger in. He's already aching in the uncomfortable tent of his trousers. He can't imagine how he'll make it inside Arthur without coming immediately.
Arthur sighs when Eames finds his prostate, digs his nails into Eames' scalp. "I'm close, baby," he slurs. "God, that's it, you're so good-good at this, good to me-"
Eames swallows eagerly, feasting on Arthur's pleasure-drunk expression and gravelly moans. All it would take for Eames to follow him over is a thrust against Arthur's leg-
Eames forces himself back from the brink, focuses on drinking the last of Arthur's come, easing his fingers out. Arthur sags sideways onto the bed, panting.
Crawling up beside him, Eames licks the sheen of sweat from Arthur's neck, his Adam's Apple. Arthur tilts his head down for a kiss, sloppy with satiation.
"Take off your clothes and fuck me," Arthur commands, loose-limbed and indolent.
Eames peels out of his clothing, makes a show of it. Arthur watches through heavy-lidded eyes. Eames ends by thumbing Arthur's hopelessly wrinkled shirt open, pushes it out of the way to suck both nipples until Arthur shudders.
"How does this feel?" Eames tests the edge of Arthur's hole with a slicked finger.
"No soreness," Arthur replies, spreading his legs.
"Do you want to try the dildo first?"
"I'm ready for the main event." Arthur hooks the back of Eames' thighs with his heels, drags him forward. "Come here."
Eames climbs on top of Arthur, reaching for the condom. Rather than help him put it on, Arthur kisses Eames, thoroughly and deeply. Eames finds himself drifting away in it, in Arthur's closeness.
The kiss ends with Eames gasping for breath, fingers fumbling with the condom wrapper until Arthur takes it. He rolls it down, seeming unaware of how close Eames is to the edge, how all it would take is a wayward breeze.
Eames holds Arthur's legs open and guides himself in. Arthur exhales when the head is inside. It doesn't sound like pain.
Eames stops, sucks in a huge breath.
"Hey. Hi." Arthur cups Eames' cheek tenderly, as if Eames were the one in need of careful handling. "We're okay, right? We're okay."
Eames nods, something constricting in his chest as he eases further inside, monitors Arthur's face for pain. Once Eames is fully sheathed, he expects the constriction to ease but it doesn't, transforming into a panicky energy that spreads throughout his chest, his gut.
"Eames," Arthur whispers, chasing Eames' gaze until he catches it, locks it. "Will you kiss me?"
Eames nods again, shaky, and tries not to turn his face away. It's too intimate to kiss like this, to be inside Arthur, engulfed by him. Eames is drowning in want: wanting to rut mindlessly into release, wanting to make Arthur writhe with pleasure, wanting to stay absolutely still in this moment-
The kiss steals Eames' breath and doesn't return it. Arthur's hands run all over Eames' body-his back, his arms, his buttocks-and leave a searing trail behind, a brand. This isn't what it was supposed to be like. Eames is supposed to be the one comforting Arthur, guiding him through this, showing him how to allow Eames in.
"Wait," Eames says, leaning backwards, away. Their lower bodies remain flush, his cock still fully buried inside. "Are you-do you-"
"I'm okay. Doesn't hurt." Arthur blinks, as if he just realizes something. "You're inside me."
"Aren't you-" Eames summons the courage to meet Arthur's gaze. "Aren't you-"
"I'm terrified," Arthur replies, so low Eames can barely hear it. "But I want this. I want to try."
Eames finds Arthur's hand, weaves their fingers together. Then he steels himself and begins to move. The first thrust is slow, jerky. The second is an improvement. The third makes them both gasp.
"I'm so close," Eames practically whimpers.
"It's okay, baby," Arthur says, wrapping his legs round Eames' waist. "You don't have to hold back anymore."
Eames moans with relief and begins to thrust. He remembers to bring a hand to Arthur's cock, is surprised to find Arthur's hand there already, stroking. Their fingers tangle, and Arthur's legs tighten.
Eames tries to moderate his pace at first, nothing too rough, and loses control quickly. He wants to make it last, but he can't. The way Arthur feels is overwhelming: hot, tight, beautiful, perfect. None of it is how he'd imagined. Arthur should be the one on the edge of losing his mind, Eames should be the one steady and in control. How can Arthur claim to be frightened when Eames can feel the edge of a precipice, so close to falling--
"That's it, baby, right there, right there-"
Eames comes with a ragged shout, balls slapping obscenely against Arthur's arse. Pleasure passes through him like the crack of a whip, electrifying his spine and curling his toes.
He collapses onto Arthur gracelessly, numb fingers jammed against Arthur's hard cock.
"Fuck, baby." Arthur rolls Eames backwards onto the mattress, jacking his dick urgently. "I love watching you come on top of me."
Sleep threatens to take Eames at any moment. He wills his eyelids to stay open and urges Arthur up to straddle his chest, leaking dick pointed at Eames' chin. Eames wants to help, tries to lean up to lick, but his orgasm-deadened limbs refuse to cooperate. All he manages is a clumsy thumb against Arthur's hole and parted lips before Arthur ejaculates, painting his face.
"Jesus Christ," Arthur mutters as he ducks down to kiss Eames' slack mouth, smear the come over Eames' cheeks and eyebrows. "Fuck, your face, I-"
"S'good," Eames mumbles in between kisses. "I liked it."
"You were amazing," Arthur says, cradling Eames' face. "Fucking amazing."
Eames hums in contentment. He did well. He pleased Arthur.
* * * * *
"Don't," Eames warns his projection. "Don't say it."
Federico spreads his arms and shrugs. "What is there to say?"
* * * * *
"Mother," Eames answers the phone.
"I met that girl of yours," she replies with no preamble.
"Yes, I heard."
"She was not as bad as I expected."
"I had absolutely nothing to do with that, I can assure you," Eames says.
"No, indeed not." His mother is silent a moment. "You'll tell her she can visit again."
"You can tell her yourself."
"I suppose." Another pause. "And if you should like to visit."
"We'll see," he says. "Goodbye, Mother."
* * * * *
"Hello, darling," Eames says, rather softer and more dreamily than he'd liked. He has to stymie the urge to touch the dimple that appears in Arthur's cheek and good lord, he is entirely besotted.
"Hey you," Arthur answers, favoring Eames with a smile as he sits up.
"Working on the gardens?"
"No." Arthur's smile disappears. "I'm working on a preliminary build for a job."
"You have a job in the field?" Eames tries to mask surprise and what he suspects is dismay with casual curiosity. It mostly works.
"Small gig in Venezuela. Actually," Arthur pauses in the midst of removing his cannula, "I could use a second opinion on some architectural features. Would you be willing to do a quick walkthrough of my build?"
"Of course," Eames says, wondering if there's any room on the job. He's a man of many skills, able to fill several roles on a team, able to translate. He could go to Venezuela.
* * * * *
There's a fine rain angling into Eames' eyes. He blinks away the mist, walking onto the temple roof where a towering forest used to reside. The trees have been cut, burnt remains piled together. Aside from that, the ground is smooth and level now, no more twisted fragments of trees jagging up towards the sky. The soil is a deep sooty black, mixed with swirls of pale ash.
"What are you going to plant?" Eames asks, surveying the desolate landscape.
"I don't know. Who knows if anything will grow after all this." Arthur kicks up some leaves and they disintegrate into dust. "Why are we here? I didn't-I'm supposed to be showing you my build, not garden leftovers."
"It seems your subconscious insisted," Eames says, not unsympathetic.
Arthur scowls. "My subconscious can shove it."
Eames chuckles, squatting down and running his fingers through the soil. Despite its appearance, it feels rich, ready for life. "When you discover the secret to leashing a rogue subconscious, please do share. I'll be first in line for a muzzle."
Arthur doesn't reply. He's staring blankly into the distance, seeming to have forgotten Eames' presence.
Eames could walk away, leave him to his thoughts. Eames could shoot himself out of the dream. He doesn't need to involve himself any further in Arthur's private business.
"Arthur," Eames says. "Are you alright?"
"Aiden doesn't want me in his life." All at once, the petulant anger seems to drain like pus from a wound, leaving a weary resignation behind. "All these years, I've been deluding myself. Working towards-nothing."
"What you've built here isn't nothing. The building, the gardens, the weather patterns--I've never seen anything like it."
"There's weather. So what? Without Aiden I'm-" Arthur closes his eyes. "I'm all alone."
Eames stares at the severe line of Arthur's neck. "Are you?"
Arthur opens his eyes after a long minute. "I would have thought you'd be the existential kind. Born alone, die alone kind of thing."
"I used to be. But I've been reconsidering." Eames touches the small of Arthur's back, careful. "Perhaps it doesn't have to be that way. We can't control how we're born, but we can influence how we live. Perhaps how we die."
Arthur looks at Eames. "How do you want to live?"
"I've used up half my mortal lifespan and then some, if you count dreams. Most of it has been a tumultuous waste, and I've no one to blame for that besides myself. I'd like the second half to be-better."
"Better," Arthur echoes. "What does that mean, exactly?"
"Do you know that Malaya and I never fought? I used to regard it as a point of pride, as all my parents did was fight," Eames says. "It didn't mean we weren't unhappy-I simply buried my dissatisfaction in alcohol while Malaya would try to broach the matter in conversation. She'd complain and I would get angry-wondering why she had to ruin our perfectly civilized silent hostility with direct confrontation. I'd refuse to talk about it, going as far as leaving the flat for a day or two. I was punishing her quite pettily, but I also comforted myself with the notion that I was protecting her from my anger. Really, the only one I was protecting was myself."
Arthur stares down at Eames' hand and, for a brief moment, reaches as if he were going to take it. Then his fingers curl away. "If you could go back and do it differently, would you?"
"I used to torment myself with those sorts of questions. Never sober, but I spent several years avoiding sobriety as much as possible after she left me." Eames notes that Arthur's arms are crossed over his abdomen, as if protecting an injury. "I found regret and self-pity weren't especially effective in luring ex-wives into second chances."
"You gave up, then?" The words are gritted out.
"She's married and has the children she never wanted to have with me," Eames says, quietly. "She's happier with her new husband than she was with me-including when we were at our most functional, which wasn't very. Underneath the blazing chemistry and the fun we had, we weren't compatible. It simply took years and a failed marriage to realize it."
Arthur blinks. "Did you want them? Children?"
"When I was with her I would have done anything, however ill-advised. She made a good decision, not bothering with me. I wouldn't have been much of a parent." Eames corrects himself, dryly, "I'm not much of a parent."
"It's a different thing when your own DNA, your double, rejects you." Arthur shakes his head with a bitter smile. "I'm the fucking evil twin, you know."
"I've always found the evil twin to be the sexier one."
"You would."
"Everyone does. They're confident, self-assured in their nefarious ways, and don't give a damn what other people think," Eames says. "Also, they wear tighter clothing. Usually leather."
Arthur shakes his head again, some of the bitterness in his smile receding. "I do look great in leather."
"One day you'll have to show me." Eames bumps a shoulder against Arthur's. "Perhaps demonstrate your villainous laugh while you're at it."
Arthur pushes back. "If anyone has rehearsed a villainous laugh here, it's definitely you."
Eames smiles. "Maybe."
Arthur sighs and enfolds himself in Eames' arms, hooks his chin over Eames' shoulder. "This is going to get easier, isn't it?"
"Yes." Eames kisses the top of Arthur's head, a hint of dread rising amidst the frightening tenderness he feels. "Yes, it will."
* * * * *
"Still alive?" Eames asks.
"You know that between the two of us, you'll be the first to slip off the mortal coil," Tillery replies. "Why are you calling at this hour? You're never up this early in the morning."
"I have a question," Eames says, and steels himself. "After Malaya, I swore I'd never marry again."
"I remember," Tillery replies. "I have a lemur tattoo as a memento of that regrettable evening."
Eames chuckles. "Good thing we ran out of money before I could purchase the matching one."
"Good thing for you, you stupidly lucky sod," Tillery says. "Now what's this about?"
"I find myself in a sort of liminal state, the uncertainty of which is--well, it's bothering me more than I thought it would."
"You want something more permanent?"
"Not permanent, per se, but more substantial than what I've got," Eames says. "Arthur's--I mean, I have a few jobs coming up. Lucrative work. But it'll require me to visit some nasty places on my own. I wonder whether there'll be anything to return to after the job is over, do you understand?"
Tillery is silent long enough for Eames to check if the connection has been lost. At last, he says, "I'm hardly the expert on these matters, as my four ex-wives will tell you at length. I can't say what you should do, but I can tell you that it's a rotten feeling waiting and hoping for someone who doesn't want to be with you. It's no way to live."
"And what does one do in that sort of situation?" Eames asks, suspecting he'll not be pleased with the answer.
"Talk and be prepared to walk away," Tillery says, quietly. "If you don't, it'll eat away at your insides. Make you feel less of a man every day that passes. And the kicker is--they'll know. They already do."
* * * * *
Eames packs a bag and takes a few days away from Arthur's flat. To see how it feels. Because he can.
He remembers to bring money and sets up in a well-appointed hotel on the other side of Paris.
The first day away feels like nothing particular. Eames goes to the Parc de la Villette, eavesdrops on mundane conversations about the weather and work and children. He's eating a fruit tart for lunch when Arthur texts him about dinner plans, which Eames declines. He doesn't explain why.
In the evening, he chats up a pretty Chinese woman. They have sex in a bathroom before she returns to her tour group.
The following day, Eames goes to the Musée d'Orsay, walks through an exhibition on the male nude within Western art, and enjoys it immensely. Afterwards, he picks up a nosebleed seat to the opera. During intermission, there's an innocuous text from Arthur with the subtext of: have you been kidnapped and are you okay?
Eames answers with something reassuring and returns to the opera. He sleeps alone.
The next morning, he wakes up with a sizable erection and scours his memory for suitable masturbatory material. There was that one foursome he had several years ago with a group of nubile young women, filled with sucking and fucking and all the stuff wet dreams are made of.
He's about three-quarters of the way to orgasm when his mind drifts from pussies and breasts to a more recent memory. In this memory, Eames has his mouth on bollocks, two fingers up Arthur's arse.
Eames tries to push the mental image away, return to his foursome. But there's the way Arthur had stared down at him, apprehensive and vulnerable as Eames had eased one finger inside. His moan had been so gorgeous when Eames found his prostate, his legs spreading minutely as Eames eased a second finger in.
Eames jerks himself harder as he remembers how Arthur sighed, fingers stroking through Eames' hair. Eames licked and sucked at Arthur's balls, savored them, moaned when Arthur came from that and two fingers.
"Come here, baby," Arthur murmured after, reaching out. Eames crawled up for a kiss, warm and content.
Eames comes to the memory of Arthur's kisses, his pants. It's pathetic, really-of all things to fantasize about. Arthur. Making Arthur come.
Days pass. Eames sleeps with a few more strangers and resolutely does not think about Arthur again.
Arthur doesn't try to contact Eames further, having either forgotten about him or determined that Eames wants to be left alone. Eames refuses to initiate any contact, and refuses to think about it.
* * * * *
After barely a week away, Eames misses Arthur abominably and it depresses him beyond words. Time alone has forced Eames to confront a truth he'd been hoping to avoid: that what he currently has with Arthur isn't enough anymore. That Eames wants a proper relationship. And according to Tillery, the useless bastard, there's nothing to be done except talk about it. With Arthur.
He slinks into the flat mid-afternoon, ready to crawl into bed for a wank amidst Arthur-scented sheets and self-pity. He's not sure why he didn't expect Arthur to be working from home--some vague notion about him being out for lunch with a contact, perhaps--but home Arthur is.
"Hullo," Eames murmurs, dropping his bag by the door and moving towards the bedroom.
"Hey." It's a single syllable, barely a word, and yet it stops Eames in mid-step when accompanied by the dazzling smile on Arthur's face. "You're back."
"I am." Eames tries to think of something clever to say and fails.
Arthur shuts his laptop and crosses the distance between them in what feels like a single stride. "Welcome back."
"Um," Eames says, already wrapped in Arthur's arms.
"I missed you." Arthur stares affectionately into Eames' eyes.
"And I, you," Eames says helplessly.
Arthur's smile grows, and Eames feels his own face ache in a reciprocal, slack-jawed expression. "Do you want to tell me about what you've been up to?"
Lazing about in a park feeding birds and listening to locals complain hardly qualifies as information worth sharing. Yet Eames finds himself telling Arthur about it all. How he fell asleep in the park and woke up to a pigeon trying to pry open his fingers to reach the last bit of fruit tart. How the hotel wallpaper had stripes that didn't quite line up at the corners, which drove him battier than he'd care to admit.
Even stranger is the way Arthur listens raptly, thumb stroking over Eames' knuckles. "I thought you looked tanner."
"Yeah," Eames replies, dazed. He wants to slap himself but can't muster the will to take his hands out of Arthur's.
"Hey, good news. I heard from the French government and they're going to let me keep the place." Dimples appear. "We should celebrate. How about a trip to the Virgin Islands? I've arranged our tickets."
"Sounds marvelous." Eames would probably agree to a jaunt to Antarctica at this point. "And congratulations."
"All due to your hard work. Which reminds me." Arthur takes a step backwards, tugging Eames along. "I want to show you something."
* * * * *
A familiar snake crawls over Eames: a huge, neon green boa constrictor. He blinks at it, momentarily frozen in place, lying prone on the ground. It seems to smirk at him, wrapping once round his neck and tightening for a horrifying instant before losing interest and slithering away.
"What the hell," Eames mutters as he stands, rubbing the bruises left behind.
He walks through a quiet temple filled with somber green plants. In contrast to Eames' heather fields, which had exploded into bloom and stayed that way since Arthur visited, nothing is in flower here.
Eames emerges onto the roof of the temple, girding himself for ruin or, perhaps worse, sheer emptiness.
"Hey," Arthur says, lowering a pair of pruning shears. "There you are."
"Hullo." Eames saunters over with as much nonchalance as he can muster while his eyes dart about in quiet wonder. The entire roof has been refilled-the trees are spindly young saplings yet, but most definitely growing.
"Let me show you what I planted," Arthur says, taking Eames by the wrist and tugging. Eames follows, utterly docile.
"It's a mix of a bunch of different species this time, because that's more resilient than having a monoculture," Arthur says, pointing at what Eames presumes are different types of trees, though they mostly look the same to him. "If bad weather or a pest hits, it won't kill them all. Some will survive."
"Most sensible," Eames agrees, wandering through rows of fresh plantings. Arthur chatters on about mulch and soil pH and pollinators while Eames nods. Arthur smells like tree sap and leaves. New life.
"This one's called the London Plane," Arthur says, stopping in front of a deciduous tree with bark that appears to be peeling off. "Every year it sheds its bark and rids itself of any pests that might have set up shop on it."
"It's not very pretty, is it?" Eames picks a piece of rough brown bark off to reveal mottled yellow and green underneath.
"The London Plane can grow all over the world, even in highly polluted urban areas." Arthur smiles as he plucks one of the bright green leaves, symmetrical and pointed. "I think it's beautiful."
Eames squints at it dubiously. "It sounds like a stripper name."
Arthur beams. "It does, doesn't it?"
Eames continues to stare at it, trying to see what Arthur sees.
"I couldn't have done it without you, you know," Arthur says, softly. "The apartment. Seeing Aiden. These gardens."
"You would've managed somehow," Eames says, thinking of Sudheer and that damn boa constrictor.
"Maybe," Arthur says. "You know, when we did our first job together, I thought I had you pegged. You were going to be the swashbuckling pain in my ass who assumed he could charm everyone with a James Bond accent and waltz off with all the credit. I was right, except for the part where you waltzed off with the credit. You never were a hog about that."
"Too much boasting makes you a target," Eames says, flexing his bad knee. "I learned that the hard way."
"I was pissed at myself for sleeping with you. My first day on the job and I'd already fucked a coworker." Arthur chuckles. "What was shittier was how much I wanted to do it again."
"You never said."
"I thought it'd be a bad idea. Didn't want to complicate things."
"Right," Eames says, the ache in his chest returning.
"I'm glad we did, though," Arthur says, voice strong and clear and deep. "I'm glad I picked you up in that shitty Mexican bar and that we fucked in Copenhagen after that. I'm glad-I'm glad you asked me to do this bucket list with you."
No regrets, Edith Piaf sings as the musical cue begins to play. How simple a life could be with no regrets.
Next: Chapter 10, Part b