Fic: There's got to be a morning after Chapter 10b: The Animal Song
There's got to be a morning after
Chapter 10b: The Animal Song
Master post
Wordcount: 15,000
It's a poor idea to allow himself to be drawn into this, Eames thinks, as Arthur guides him to the bed and kisses him senseless.
But how could Eames fail to want this and more? How is it possible he slept with Arthur for all these years without knowing, without truly seeing?
Arthur straddles Eames' lap and takes off his cufflinks, one sleeve at a time. Eames watches, mesmerized, as Arthur undoes the buttons of his shirt, allows it to drop to the floor. He peels away Eames' clothing next, runs his palms up and down Eames' sides.
"Perhaps," Eames gasps, the last desperate breath of a man out of his depth, "Perhaps we can be--you can be the disciplinarian schoolteacher and I'll be the naughty--"
"Can we be an Eames that's come home and an Arthur that's missed him?" Arthur asks with a smile so sweet it shatters Eames. "And tomorrow we can be whatever you want us to be."
"You shouldn't make promises about tomorrow when you don't know the terms," Eames says, something twisting inside. "You don't know what I'll hold you to."
"I trust you."
"Not with everything." Eames places a palm on Arthur's sternum, feeling raw and sad. It's too late for Eames. There's no going back to the easy distance between him and Arthur, to the casual remove.
Arthur covers Eames' hand with his. "What's left?"
"We-"
"Things are going good, aren't they?" Arthur says. "This whole bucket list thing is really working out."
"Yes-"
"There's a saying: if it ain't broke, don't fix it," Arthur continues. "I think that applies perfectly here. We've got a great thing. It works without needing any tweaking or adjustments, really. It's great."
"Great," Eames echoes blankly.
"Sometimes it's better not to change things. Like when you examine a joke too closely, it's not that funny anymore, you know?" Arthur seems to gather himself. "I mean, there's no need to apply labels to a situation when it's working. They're limiting."
And there it is. Eames looks at Arthur steadily and says, "Is it?"
"Yes." Arthur lifts his chin. "This works. There's no need to-complicate things."
Eames stares up at regal line of Arthur's neck. It would be easy to capitulate. To give Arthur what he wants. "You say that as if things between us aren't already complicated."
"They're not, that's the point. We sleep together, you do your own thing, I-"
"I could leave tomorrow and never come back," Eames says. "Or you could. And that would be perfectly fine?"
Arthur's jaw tightens. "Theoretically. But why would either of us do that when-"
"Arthur." Eames sits up, causing Arthur to shift away. "What if I want more than this lack of definition?"
The blood drains from Arthur's face. "We agreed-"
"I know what we agreed to. I'm asking if-"
"Why are you doing this?" Arthur's tone is suddenly accusatory, as if Eames is committing an act of gross betrayal. "Why are you trying to ruin this?"
His words cut. Eames was expecting them, but not how much they sting. "Because I want more. From you. From us."
"I don't know what more you think I have to give." Arthur's hands ball into fists. "I told you from the beginning there was one thing I wouldn't do. I told you, and I don't want things to change."
"I know you don't. Unfortunately," Eames sucks in a breath that aches, knowing he can't take this back, "I can't stay if things don't change."
Arthur stumbles away from the bed, as if he'd been struck. "What?"
"I don't need or especially want monogamy, but I do-I need a relationship. A commitment of some kind. And I can't continue to-to fraternize with you if you won't provide that."
Arthur looks away. He's breathing hard, as if he's run several miles. "You don't-want me anymore. You're bored. You want--"
"What? No-"
"I agreed to help you with your bucket list and you know I'll see it through. You can add whatever you--you want to it and I'll do it. Anything. For as long as you-"
"Sex can't be the sole basis of our relationship any longer," Eames interrupts, the words dragging over an obstruction in his throat. "I'm sorry. It can't be."
Arthur runs both hands through his hair, paces to the other side of the room. "I don't understand. Are you saying you'll stop? That we won't-"
"I can't have sex with you without it meaning something. I can't spend time with you, talk to you, be-" Eames chokes on the words. "I don't think I'll even be able to work with you. If we can't come to an agreement on this."
The fire's gone from Arthur's voice, his body. His shoulders are narrow and hunched. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No." Eames wants to pull Arthur close, murmur: nevermind, you're wonderful, I'm mad about you, let's forget I said anything. Arthur would kiss him and take him to bed. He could make Arthur dimple again. "You've been entirely too wonderful, in fact. Much more than I could have ever dreamt."
"Then why do you want to leave me?" Arthur's voice is barely a whisper.
"I don't. That's the point. I don't want to ever leave you, which is why-"
"Relationships end. They always do. But this can-"
"I'm too old to wait around hoping the person I want to be with wants me, too," Eames says. "And this can't go on forever. I won't let it."
"Then is this-" Arthur's voice is hoarse. "Is this the end?"
"Not yet," Eames says, struggling to keep his own words steady. "I think we should both take some time to think over where we stand."
"How long?"
Eames grasps blindly at a timeframe, a part of him going into shock at the idea that he might not see Arthur again after it. "A week."
"A week." Arthur seems to be reeling. Eames is, a little, himself. "The flight to the Virgin Islands is two days from now."
"We don't have to-"
"No." Arthur straightens his shoulders. "We should go. We need to finish the last item on your list."
"Are you--"
"Yes. I agreed to finish that list with you and I intend to live up to my promise." Arthur walks to the door of the bedroom and says, without turning, "Do you really want this to end?"
"I need someone who wants to be with me," Eames says. "If we want different things, it's best we acknowledge that."
"What if I don't have it in me?" Arthur touches the doorway. "What if I can't go through-losing someone again?"
"You won't go without for long," Eames says. "There are others who can give you everything you could possibly want. I simply-can't, anymore."
* * * * *
Arthur claims the chaise lounge in the evening, watching yet another version of Star Trek on the television. Eames putters about the flat, waiting for Arthur to retire to the bedroom, but the evening becomes the early morning and Arthur still hasn't moved.
Eames gives up and goes to bed, sleeping fitfully and ready to reach for Arthur's warm body, claim sleepy ignorance of his actions.
Arthur doesn't join him, and Eames wakes up alone.
* * * * *
Eames spends the next day on the chaise lounge. He studies Korean grammar and doesn't allow himself to wonder where Arthur is. What right has he to call, to text, to inquire? None. Arthur is free, and shows all signs of wanting to remain so indefinitely.
Arthur returns late, reeking of liquor. He goes to bed without comment, though Eames notices that the light stays on well past four AM.
* * * * *
The next morning, Arthur rouses Eames with a light touch on the shoulder.
"You want to go for a run?" Arthur asks, almost timidly.
Eames sits up, muscles aching from sleeping on the lounge. He shakes his head. "I think I'm going to head to bed now."
"Sure." Arthur steps back. "I'll see you later."
* * * * *
Eames wakes for a second time to an enormous box of expensive chocolates on the pillow beside him. He feels a twinge of déjà vu, and wonders if this is the last time Arthur will attempt to woo him with sweets.
There can be no room for half measures. A clean break and absolutely no contact for at least a year if this all goes pear-shaped. More pear-shaped than it already has, that is. The temptation to linger in dissatisfied perpetuity, taking whatever scraps of affection Arthur will toss his way, is far too great.
Eames opens the box. The first morsel is a flood of delicious flavor as he scans the bedroom, a million miles from what it used to be.
Gone is the cramped bed, replaced with something large and comfortable, space enough for two men to sleep in. Arthur's shoes no longer litter the floor, having been relegated to closets. The walls are hung with art, tasteful pieces from Arthur's collection, all to Eames' liking.
Will Arthur revert to his usual disorganization once Eames is gone? Most likely. There's no reason to believe that a desire for cleanliness will linger once Eames is no longer there to enforce it.
There's a knock on the bedroom door. "Yes?" Eames replies, bracing himself.
Arthur opens the door but doesn't step in. "Did I wake you?"
"Not at all," Eames says, and holds up the half-eaten box of chocolates. "I hope you weren't planning to give these to anyone else."
"You know there's no one-" Arthur stops. "The flight is in four hours. A car to the airport is on its way here."
"I should pack, then."
Arthur stares at Eames. Eames doesn't meet his gaze; the last thing he needs is to start mentally rhapsodizing about Arthur's sad eyes and the bridge of his beautiful nose. "I hope you like the chocolates."
"They're delicious," Eames says, not sure he'll be able to taste the rest at all.
* * * * *
Arthur works the whole flight and Eames reads three women's magazines, catching up on the major fashion trends of the past year. They don't speak.
The hotel is quite picturesque, with a private beach and manicured grounds. Arthur visibly perks up when well-tended gardens come into view, and Eames allows himself the pleasure of secretly watching Arthur peer out the window.
Would it really be so terrible to continue on like this, to hoard whatever bits of Arthur are available, to bask in Arthur's kisses and pretend that one day he'll say-
"Your baggage, sir?" The driver says, and Eames shakes himself out of his wishful reverie. What are romantic words, anyway? Sudheer lives for Arthur's romantic words and where has that gotten him?
"The fursuits should arrive tomorrow," Eames says once they've checked in. They have separate rooms on opposite sides of a long hallway. "I'll have them laundered."
"Great. Will we be doing this in your room or mine?"
"Yours," Eames says. He wants to be able to leave quickly once they're done. The last thing he needs is a pity cuddle after.
"Do you want to get dinner?" Arthur's voice drops slightly. "Room service?"
Every part of Eames wants to say yes, right down to his toes. "I don't think that'd be a good idea."
Before Eames can duck into his room, Arthur stops him with a hand on his elbow. "Do you hate me?"
Eames stares down at Arthur's cufflinks. "No."
"You could ask for anything else in the world and I'd give it to you."
Eames tugs free of Arthur's grasp. "I know."
* * * * *
"This is a predicament," Federico says.
"This is lunacy, but at least it will be coming to an end soon," Eames replies as he dips his feet into the stream.
"Such a small thing you ask. No marriage, no monogamy. Do you really think he'll let you go?"
Eames watches his reflection shift into something female and familiar: Malaya. She peers back at him solemnly. "I can't honestly believe I'll be the exception to all his rules."
"Then why are you doing this?"
"Because sometimes things must end." Eames' reflection shimmers back into his own. "Sometimes we have to let people go."
"You're really going to walk away?"
"I must." Eames gives in to the temptation to watch his projection of Arthur, weeding a small plot of land across the water. "I have a plane ticket back to Mombasa on Tuesday. He won't follow me there."
"You're going to end it in fursuit sex?"
"What else should I end with? Tearful lovemaking?"
Federico squeezes Eames' shoulder. "Won't you be lonely?"
"Painfully lonely." Eames runs his palm over the heather plants, still stubbornly in bloom. "But I'll survive. As will he."
* * * * *
Eames steps out the back entrance of the hotel onto glittering white sand. The beach is private, immaculate, and dotted with several other hotel patrons. Several lifeguard stations are positioned halfway to the water.
As he walks down the beach, more than a few heads swivel in his direction. A group of young women glance coyly and Eames winks, sparking a flurry of giggles.
When he reaches the ocean, he dives in. Sometime later, after he's tired from flailing about like a loon, he finds a clean patch of sand and dozes. He's stirred to wakefulness by something blocking his sunlight.
"H'lo," Eames says sleepily, opening his eyes to a vaguely familiar face-one of the lifeguards. The boy can't be more than eighteen, shoulders still underdeveloped and bare chest more flat than fit. Handsome face-dark eyes, tan skin-though about a decade too young for Eames. Shame.
"Excuse me, sir, I'm sorry to bother you," the lifeguard says, shifting his weight from side to side nervously. "The hotel wants to remind all guests that when spending more than an hour in the sun, it is important to regularly apply sunscreen."
"What excellent advice." Eames sits up and notes with some pleasure the way the boy's gaze flickers towards his crotch. "Do you happen to have any sunscreen with you? I've no idea where I packed mine."
"Yes. Um. Yes," the lifeguard stutters.
"What a darling you are," Eames purrs as he reaches halfway for the proffered tube. "Unfortunately-well, this may seem rather silly of me, but I'm afraid there are some locations where it's difficult to apply and I know how even coverage is key to preventing the horrors of skin cancer."
"Um." The boy swallows, and Eames can practically hear the cogs whirring in his mind. "I'd be-I mean, I could-if you're comfortable with-"
"You'd be willing to help?" Eames asks, promptly rolling onto his stomach and glancing back over his shoulder. "I would deeply appreciate any assistance you could render."
By the time Arthur appears, the lifeguard's finished with Eames' back, fingers lingering at the very lowest region, hovering right above his arse.
"Hello," Arthur says, looming over them both. The lifeguard mutters some hasty excuses and flees in terror.
"You've scared the poor boy off." Eames sighs. "Now who will diligently guard my life from melanomas?"
"I think you'll manage." Arthur digs out another bottle of sunscreen and drops it dangerously close to Eames' head.
"Yes, but there's a difference between simply eating food versus being fed grapes by buxom young maidens," Eames says. "One is about sustenance. The other is about hedonistic delight."
"I'll keep that in mind." Arthur kneels by Eames and picks up the sunscreen. "Roll over. I'll do your front."
Arthur's wearing a rather fashionable set of madras swim trunks, slim-cut but tasteful, and his skin seems to glow in the sunlight. Eames wants to lick him. This is all headed in a bad direction.
"Why, Arthur." Eames flutters his eyelashes as he leans back and pillows his head in his palms. "Are you offering to peel my grapes?"
"Is that what kids are calling it these days?" Arthur's hands-and the lotion-are cool, soothing against Eames' hot skin.
Eames works to control his breathing as Arthur works down his neck, over his collarbones, and across his pectorals. Arthur's thumbs brush not-quite-accidentally against Eames' nipples, smooth down his sides to the grooves of his hips. "And here I thought I'd be the one winding you up," Eames murmurs, feeling his dick begin to fill.
"You know you already are," Arthur murmurs, leaning over Eames. "Lying out here, waiting to be devoured."
Eames means to leave it at that, roll over onto his front and ignore the crackling energy between them. Except he can't, not with the memory of Arthur's palms across his torso, his abdomen, his hips.
Eames reaches over and kisses Arthur, kisses him madly and recklessly the way he's been craving all week. Mutters, "Come inside with me, come with me, I need you," and Arthur does.
They stumble back to Eames' room, frantic like it's been a drought of years, not days. Eames licks over every inch of Arthur's chest, down his arms, and nuzzles at the fouled anchor hidden on the inside of his bicep. Semper fi, the text reads underneath, and Eames kisses that, too.
Eames eases down Arthur's tiny black Speedos, noses at the pink head of Arthur's cock. There's the smell of musk, of the ocean, of something so wide and vast Eames can't begin to wrap his mind around it.
Eames starts with the balls first, licks and sucks them tenderly. Arthur tenses, but Eames is careful, telling him without words that there's nothing to fear.
"Please," Arthur whispers, hips moving restlessly.
Eames moves up Arthur's inner thighs, sucks not quite hard enough to leave marks. He licks the underside of Arthur's cock, lays open mouthed kisses all around the base before finally, finally allowing himself to suck at the head. There's the bite of sea salt, though the oozing precome tastes only of Arthur, warm and unexpectedly sweet.
"Here." Arthur threads his fingers through Eames' hair and urges him up. "Come here."
Eames releases Arthur's cock reluctantly, allows himself to be pulled up, but resists Arthur's attempts to catch his lips. Instead, he licks along the side of Arthur's neck, bites at his ear.
"Put your cock inside me," Arthur says. "I want to feel you. I want you to-"
"No." Eames pulls back. "No, I can't."
"Eames-"
"Don’t make me." Eames hears his voice crack as he turns his face away. "Please don't make me, Arthur."
Arthur goes quiet, still gripping Eames. One by one, his fingers release. "I won't. It's okay."
It's not okay. Nothing is okay, but Eames climbs onto the bed anyway. "Fuck me," he says, getting on his hands and knees. "Fuck me like this."
Arthur hesitates, then maneuvers into position behind him. "Alright."
Eames spreads his legs and readies himself for lube, for Arthur's chilly fingers. He's not pleased when Arthur begins to kiss his back, as thoroughly as Eames had investigated Arthur's body earlier.
Arthur wraps one warm hand round Eames' cock as he kisses, cradling as his mouth dips lower and lower. Eames knows it's coming and yet can't properly relax.
"It's okay, baby," Arthur says, stroking the small of Eames' back, his side. "I'm here."
Don't call me that, Eames wants to say. He can't, though. He wouldn't mean it.
Bit by bit, the tension eases in Eames' back. As he relaxes, everything feels better, Arthur's tongue a persistent thrum of pleasure against Eames' hole. Eames sighs as he lowers his head, cheek resting on a pillow, legs splayed.
Arthur kisses up Eames' spine and turns them both onto their sides.
"Like this," Arthur murmurs as he slicks Eames and presses inside. "Like this, okay?"
Eames acquiesces though he shouldn't, spooned in Arthur's warmth. The feel of Arthur's cock inside, full and deep, is good. It's a far cry from the way they used to fuck. Arthur knows every inch of Eames' body now, how to coax each nerve into song.
"I saw you in that tiny swimsuit on the beach and had to talk to you, to make you see me," Arthur breathes into Eames' ear. "I would have blown you right there if you asked."
Eames groans, wanting Arthur to stop, wanting him to never stop.
"I couldn't believe it when you reached for me, when you brought me back here. It was driving me crazy not to touch you." Arthur catches Eames' chin, doesn't let him turn away. "I missed you. Talking to you and running with you and waking up to you-"
"Don’t," Eames rasps.
"Stay with me," Arthur whispers, his forehead pressing against Eames'. "Please stay."
"I want to," Eames says, opening his eyes, trapped by Arthur's gaze. "You know I do. All you have to do is say."
Arthur kisses him and says nothing. Eames squeezes his eyes shut, allows himself to fall over the edge of orgasm with Arthur wrapped around him, immeasurably far away.
* * * * *
"Do you want me to go?" Arthur asks.
Eames doesn't open his eyes, halfway to sleep. "No."
* * * * *
"Good afternoon," Eames says when Arthur stirs.
Arthur's gaze goes directly to where Eames stands by the window, no sleepy disorientation to speak of. "Afternoon."
"I ordered room service. It should be arriving any minute now." Eames resumes watching the waves break against the shore. "Quite a bit of food. You're welcome to whatever you'd like."
"Thanks."
In his peripheral vision, Eames can see Arthur sitting up gingerly. Awkward, as if he doesn't know what to do in the situation he's found himself in. "It occurs to me that I may have been sending mixed signals earlier today," Eames says. "My libido got the best of me on the beach and I must apologize. I didn't mean to-"
"Give me false hope?" Arthur has one leg bent in front of him, the sheet draped over it rather elegantly. He's examining it. "Make me think we were back to normal?"
"Yes," Eames says. Through the window, a bird appears on the horizon. "It wasn't my intention to be cruel or mislead you in any way. My desires have not changed. Nor have yours, I presume."
"Sex won't fix it, huh?"
"No." The bird glides through the air, coming to hover over a sandbar several hundred feet from shore.
"You really want this?" Arthur moves to the edge of the bed, legs dangling over the side. He's naked, soft dick a vulnerable curve along his bare thigh.
"Yes."
"You really want me?" Arthur asks, and Eames turns.
It's not a flattering angle. The late-afternoon sun deepens the normally imperceptible wrinkles across Arthur's face, highlights the not few number of scars etched across his body. Arthur hasn't waxed the minor amount of hair on his chest recently; it's growing in coarse and grey.
There's nothing delicate about Arthur's feet, which are long and veined and calloused. His fingers, while tremendously capable, have never been elegant despite well-trimmed nails and the occasional manicure. His hairline is aggressively receding.
He looks terribly tired. Terribly human.
"Yes," Eames says. He wants it all.
"I could fuck it up. I usually do."
"Perhaps." Eames shrugs. "Perhaps I will, as well."
"You'll have to deal with Sudheer in some capacity probably for as long as I'm alive," Arthur says. "I don't think things will ever be completely done between me and him."
Eames huffs a laugh. "I'd assumed as much."
"I don't want to be monogamous. I don't want to get married. Probably ever."
"Neither do I."
Arthur looks down at his scarred, knobby knees. "I'm getting older, too."
"Good. Keep me company."
"This isn't about sex for you?"
"We've had some dreadful sex," Eames says, dryly, and to his surprise, Arthur chuckles. "Some mediocre, some good, some bloody amazing. No, that's not what this is about."
"Eames," Arthur starts, and is interrupted by a sharp rap on the door.
"That must be room service," Eames says, and goes to fetch the food. He returns, and Arthur has set out two chairs either side of a small table.
"Look," Arthur says, taking a deep breath as if he's prepared some remarks. He doesn't appear pleased with what he's about to say. Sounds grim, in fact, jaw set like he's point on a job, ready to tackle the gruesome task no one else wants. "This is the happiest I can remember being in a long time. And it's probably mostly due to you."
Eames blinks, not sure what he's hearing. All the blood seems to be rushing through his ears, like an ocean's roar. "Ah."
"This relationship thing." Arthur's put on some trousers, is buttoning up his shirt. "Nothing will change?"
"I don't know if I can promise that," Eames says, after a pause. "I'm quite smitten with you and that may manifest in unexpected ways."
Arthur's chin dips closer to his chest. "Yeah, I guess I'm. I'm pretty, uh, smitten with you, too."
"That's-splendid." Eames feels his face heat and realizes, to his horror, that he might actually blushing. Blushing.
"We'll be in a relationship, huh?" Arthur hasn't looked up, doesn't seem to have noticed. He rolls his shoulders, as if testing the weight of the word. "Do you want me to call you every day?" Eames' first instinct is to say no, because why would he? But then there's the way Arthur adds, "I could, I mean, if you really wanted me to."
Arthur, the man who adores flowers and kisses by candlelight. "Yes," Eames replies. "I'd like that very much."
"Okay. I guess I could do that." Arthur's avoiding eye contact, voice gruff. "If you want."
"Okay." Eames sets down the tray of food he's still holding. He might be in a state of shock. "We should probably eat this before it gets cold."
"That's all you have to say?" Arthur finally looks up. "I'm confronting my soul-crushing fear of commitment and all you have to say is, better eat before the food gets cold?"
"Soul-crushing seems a bit extreme," Eames murmurs and, at Arthur's expression, hastily adds, "I do take your meaning, though. To be honest, I-wasn't expecting this outcome. I composed a speech wishing you well and saying goodbye forever, if you'd like to hear that instead."
Arthur laughs and scrubs a hand across his face. There's a tinge of hysteria in it. "A speech?"
"I can list for you some of the emotions I'm feeling right now." Eames glances out the window; the bird alights on the sandbar, seeming content to perch on a rock. "Excitement, joy, bewilderment, relief, surprise, possibly the beginnings of indigestion. It's quite overwhelming."
Arthur chuckles a bit more, dropping into a chair. "Same here, I guess. Minus the indigestion."
Eames goes to stand by the table, hand hovering in the air, half-expecting Arthur to change his mind and bolt. Arthur watches and waits, quietly, until Eames screws up the courage to touch his cheek. "I'm tremendously happy right now. So much so it's difficult for me to express."
Arthur leans his cheek into Eames' palm. "Me, too."
* * * * *
Eames finds himself in a part of the hanging gardens he's never been. At least, that's what he believes until he glances up at the clear sky above and realizes he must be on the temple roof; it's simply changed since last he visited.
There are trees, of course, most having matured out of their kelly green sapling forms. The forest floor is now covered with a thick layer of heather, laden with mauve-colored flowers.
Eames walks to the mossy knoll shaded by a weeping willow. Planted nearby is one of the London Plane trees Arthur pointed out, its trunk bending curiously towards the willow, branches weaving through the willow's curtain of leaves.
"There you are," Arthur says. He stands up from where he was kneeling beside-and probably smelling-familiar button-like flowers. Tansies. "I was looking for you."
"Here I am," Eames replies, trying not to shuffle his feet shyly like a boy. "Now that you have me, what do you plan to do?"
Arthur stares off into the distance, expression thoughtful. As if he were contemplating a real answer to Eames' flirtatious questioning. "Be careful, I guess." He pauses. "Now that I have something I don't want to break."
Eames ducks his head as a wave of bashfulness washes over him. Ridiculous to feel at his age, and with someone he's known as long as Arthur. "No overwhelming panic or the need to sprint for freedom?"
"A little panic," Arthur admits. "Mostly I'm okay. I don't know. I'm not that good at talking about all this feelings stuff."
Eames picks a yellow flower and tucks it into Arthur's buttonhole. "I know. Despite all appearances to the contrary, I don't much enjoy talking about them either. Let's only do it when necessary, hm?"
Arthur smiles, raising a silver eyebrow. "Define 'necessary.'"
"If you're unhappy or dissatisfied, you should tell me and we can work to rectify the situation."
"When Sudheer and I had problems, I'd yell at him and he'd yell at me and then we'd fuck."
"Did you ever actually address the issues?"
"Is that what we were supposed to be doing?"
"Can't keep running away forever." Eames taps the flower in Arthur's buttonhole. "Best to confront such things head-on."
"I guess we've been doing okay at that so far," Arthur allows. "Resolving issues. Talking. Feelings."
Eames laughs. "Yes, I suppose we have."
"I added a few levels to the temple, including the menagerie you suggested." Now it's Arthur's turn to look bashful. "Do you want to see?"
"Of course," Eames says, because he'd agree to set the moon on fire if Arthur were to suggest it.
They tour the expanded temple-multiple new levels filled with plants, flowers, a small collection of animals (including that damn boa constrictor). Each level is airy yet contained, well-lit but not too bright, connected by whimsically paradoxical staircases. It's incredible, transcendent-a living, growing embodiment of Arthur's mind.
All those years ago, Eames broke in and hadn't the faintest idea what he was seeing. All those years.
They return to the weeping willow. Beneath it, a bed has formed from heather and moss--a soft, fragrant impossibility made solid.
"It's brilliant," Eames says. "The animals, the plants, the staircases-everything."
Arthur smiles, wide and dimpled. "Thank you. I wouldn't have-I was ready to give up on this place. I'm glad you convinced me not to."
Arthur kisses Eames, sweet and impossibly tender. Eames feels his heart swell, basking in Arthur's warm regard, and marvels that this could be his life.
They have sex underneath the willow tree, Arthur riding Eames' cock beautifully first. They come and then kiss and kiss, until Eames aches for Arthur's cock inside him and practically mewls when he receives it.
They've done this a hundred times, maybe more. There should be nothing new left to discover, to do, and yet something about the way Arthur's arms encircle Eames feels entirely different than what's come before.
* * * * *
"Are you ready?" Eames asks, balancing a mobile against his shoulder and a giant panda head in his hands.
"Yes," Arthur says, decisive across the phone line. "My burrow is awaiting your arrival."
Eames chuckles as he hangs up. Arthur's being an excellent sport about all this fursuit nonsense; Eames makes a mental note to thank and reward him for it later.
He steps into the hotel hallway, the panda suit every bit as ungainly as he'd expected it to be, and knocks on Arthur's door. He barely remembers to put on the panda head before the door opens.
"Welcome to the burrow of Longtail Nutcatcher," Arthur intones, muffled by the enormous squirrel head he has on. "Would you like an acorn? Some bamboo?"
"Uh." Eames walks inside and surveys his options, slowly, because the panda head eliminates most peripheral vision and is by no means easy to turn. The way Arthur's arranged the room does vaguely resemble a nest or burrow, and there is a bowl of acorns next to a bamboo plant. "I'm fine for now. Can't grip much with my paws."
"Would you like me to groom your fur?" Arthur asks, taking a mostly steady step forward in the squirrel suit. "Smooth your tail?"
It occurs to Eames that Arthur may have spent quite a bit of time on this endeavor. The nest, the bamboo, the fursona-far more energy than Eames had expended, himself.
"Perhaps we could skip straight to the humping each others' legs," Eames suggests, already sweating and itchy in his suit.
"Yes, we can-we can do that." Arthur shuffles forward and manages to squeeze a furry leg in between Eames', one paw coming up to pet Eames' arms jerkily. "Your fur is soft and-glossy. It makes me hot."
This is how Eames finds himself rubbing up against a grown man in a squirrel suit. He wants to laugh desperately, but there's nothing jocular in Arthur's demeanor. There's something about Arthur's seriousness, his commitment to the character, his grim determination--
"I love you," Eames blurts out. "Oh god, I love you."
Arthur falls back, staring at Eames in what can only be abject horror. It's hard to tell with the squirrel head in the way, but Arthur's eyes are the widest Eames has ever seen them.
"I--I have to go," Arthur says as he turns tail--literally, in this case--and runs (staggers, really) out the door.
Eames stares after him, not sure what horrible manner of thing has just taken place.
As Eames ponders what he's done, there's a muffled rasping at the door, then a knock. Eames shuffles over to the peephole and gets an eyeful of enormous snout. It takes a full five minutes to figure out how to work a doorknob with his mostly useless panda paw.
Arthur walks back inside, heads to the nearest wall and slides into a squatting position. His tail is drooping.
"What happened to your great escape?" Eames asks.
"I'm wearing a giant squirrel suit in a hotel," Arthur says wearily. "Where can I escape?"
Eames tries to restrain the laugh that bubbles up, but it proves too much to contain and he snorts into the side of his panda head. Arthur gives him a baleful eye but soon there's the unmistakable sound of chuckling emanating from the squirrel suit as well.
"I'm sorry," Eames says, honestly. "If you'd like to change and make another dramatic exit again, I can put on some tea while I wait."
Arthur shakes his head. "No, that's--we should," he takes a deep breath, "we should talk about this."
"Yes," Eames agrees, not entirely sure he's ready to hear what Arthur has to say. No backing down now, though, unfortunately.
"Did you mean it?"
Eames considers an eloquent, if cliche, turn of phrase such as: I've never meant anything more. He settles on, "Yes."
"You picked a hell of a time to say it."
"Yes, I. I didn't expect for it to happen this way."
"What, falling in love with me?"
"No--well, yes, that too," Eames says, although it seems perfectly obvious now, looking back on things, that he always would. "But I meant telling you like this."
"Ah." Arthur balances his paws on his knees.
"I meant it, you know." It occurs to Eames that Arthur might not believe him, and might merely write it off as the heat of an admittedly absurd moment. "I do find you to be--excellent."
"Excellent? That's all you got for me? I'm 'excellent?'"
"Well, it's--you're very--" Eames mentally fumbles through some adjectives that utterly fail at describing Arthur in all his funny, beautiful, and messy glory. "I have elaborate speeches I've wooed marks with, if you'd like me to recite those. One quotes from a Shakespearean sonnet. People have reacted favorably to that one in particular."
To Eames' surprise and a trifle bit of dismay, Arthur laughs. "Do you really think I want you to recite some second- or third-hand speeches?"
"This isn't quite-" Eames goes to scratch his nose, but sighs when all he gets is the awkward side of his paw bouncing against the panda head. "I didn't expect to say it, but now that I have I wish I'd done it better. That's all."
Arthur scoots closer to Eames, voice softening. "Don't you want to know if I feel the same way?"
Yes. No. "I certainly hope you do." Eames nudges a paw-encased foot along the floor until it brushes up against the leg of Arthur's squirrel suit. "But barring that, I hope that perhaps, eventually-you'll feel similarly."
They sit like that a while, until Eames finally says, "Let's get out of these bloody suits."
"Oh god yes," Arthur replies immediately. "I'm burning up in this thing."
When they're dressed as humans again as opposed to oversized animals, Arthur sits down on the couch and turns on the television. After a moment, Eames takes a seat as well, and Arthur's arm comes up to encircle his shoulders.
"Aren't you scared of what could happen?" Arthur asks, the question muffled against Eames' left bicep.
Eames tries to remember the last time he felt this raw, this exposed in front of another human being. He thinks, perhaps, he never has-not even with his ex-wife, not even when she left him. He had been so young then.
"Of course," Eames replies. "I'm terrified. But it's worth the fear, I think."
Arthur tightens his hold on Eames and exhales. "Yeah."
Eames tucks himself against Arthur's chest. He closes his eyes and allows the soft sounds of the television, the air conditioning, the meter of Arthur's breaths lull his mind into a state of quiet.
* * * * *
"Ignore what I said yesterday," Eames says. "The panda costume smelled like formaldehyde. I've likely suffered minor brain damage from inhaling the fumes."
Arthur looks up from his breakfast cereal. "You can't take something like that back."
"I can and I will," Eames says, ready to put this all behind them. "I retract all declarations from the previous evening."
"To be clear, you're referring to when you told me you lov--"
"Yes," Eames interrupts. "That's the one. As I said before, formaldehyde, hallucinations, etc. It's even affected my fine motor control. Do you see this? I've developed a twitch."
"A love twitch."
"Stop saying that word," Eames hisses. "This is not a joke--why are you laughing?"
"I'm not laughing," Arthur says, though at this point he's not even trying to hide it behind a napkin. "I'm choking on a piece of cereal."
"I am hereby redacting this and the previous evening's conversation from our shared history. We shall never speak of it again."
"What if I don't want to forget?" Arthur asks, quietly. He's no longer choking. "Do you--do you not feel that way anymore?"
Eames swallows. This is it. This could be the exit route for Arthur. For Eames. "It's not a matter of--that is to say, it's simply--disproportionate. It's all too much at once. Proclaiming love and being married and wanting a relationship and having a daughter--"
"You realize only a few of those things have to do with me?"
"I suppose I can't blame you for my entire lifetime's worth of poor decision-making," Eames concedes, trying to be flippant and somehow failing. "I always envisioned myself as a free agent, tied down by no obligations, beholden to no one. But here I am, married again, and likely to inherit my family's estate. I have a daughter who writes and asks me to come visit her at university. I spend a not insignificant amount of time engaging in an activity which could only be described as 'snuggling' night after night. With the same person, no less." He wrinkles his nose. "It all sounds like something my twenty-year-old self would have died before becoming."
"Eames." Arthur puts down his spoon and leans forward, elbows resting on the table. "We're not twenty anymore."
"No, we're not." Eames pauses. "Do you recall that boy we met on the beach, the lifeguard?"
"The one groping you under the extremely thin pretense of sunblock application? Yes."
Eames chuckles. "When I think of him, my daughter--they're barely people at all. And by that I mean, they aren't fully formed, they haven't quite developed into Someone yet. They're undifferentiated stem cells which haven't decided whether to become a red blood cell or a neuron or whatever else. They're symbols of potential, of opportunity, of an infinite number of futures. I miss that. That feeling of anything still being possible."
"You've become Someone. You're Eames," Arthur says. "And that's a hell of a lot more interesting than potential."
"I suppose." Eames feels a curious and complex pang of emotion for the rebellious, angry young man he used to be. Barely more than a child, desired by all, desperate for sex and attention in lieu of actual human connection. There's faint longing, accompanied by a surge of relief. That he doesn't have to live that way anymore. That he is't that person anymore. How strange. "But must you insist on such bald truths? Can't you allow me to wallow in comforting self-delusions of eternal youth for a while longer?"
"Should have picked a different partner if you wanted someone who wasn't going to give it to you straight," Arthur says, expression neutral. It occurs to Eames that Arthur has likely spent hours mulling over relationship titles, carefully considering possibilities such as lover, boyfriend, or companion, before ultimately discarding them. The word partner rolls off Arthur's tongue without pause, like it's something he's practiced. Eames feels his heart lift in an embarassing, tender gladness. "Besides, I don't want a twenty-year-old. I especially don't want the pain in the ass twenty-year-old you were."
That startles a laugh from Eames. "Can't blame you for that. I left a trail of angry women and weeping men everywhere I went in my twenties."
"Has much changed since then?" Arthur asks, wry.
"Perhaps not." Eames smiles. "Sweet talker."
"Is that something you'd like?" The mood shifts back to something more serious as Arthur ducks his head. "I'm not very good at--the talking part of relating, of relationships. But I could--work on it, maybe."
"I'd quite like it if you told me more of what you were thinking. Rather than having to divine it all myself," Eames says. "Though my divination skills are top-notch."
"I don't want to forget what you said to me earlier. I don't want it to have been because of--fumes." Arthur fishes something from his messenger bag and passes it to Eames, who views it with bemusement. "This is for you."
It's a relatively small cube, a beautifully wrapped present in a subtle blue and grey plaid paper. Eames shakes it, wonders if it's a sex toy or some kind of explosive, but the rattle inside tells him nothing.
Arthur steadfastly stares at the wall while Eames opens the box. Inside is a globe, sepia colored and delicate with age. It squeaks when Eames first tries to spin it, the mount rusty after all these decades, but eventually settles into a low hum.
"This is-" Eames starts to speak and falters. Memories return, countless hours spent waiting for the headmaster to see him, cataloguing every item on his desk. "How did you-"
"I had your headmaster's corpse exhumed and took it from his coffin," Arthur says. "Okay, maybe I didn't do that. It took some doing to track down this particular one though. I now have a fairly impressive collection of vintage globes."
Eames wants to crack a joke, tuck the object away with feigned nonchalance. He can't quite manage it, though. It couldn't have been easy, locating and retrieving this wholly unimpressive artifact of Eames' misspent youth.
Eames stares down at the globe, the faded lettering of countries no longer in existence, continents he never quite believed he'd visit. He remembers how he felt when he first held it, as if the whole world were within his grasp, if only he had courage enough to take the first step.
Arthur doesn't say anything. Instead, he reaches out.
Eames takes him by the hand.
fin
Poll Fic: There's got to be a morning after - Chapter 10: Animal Song
Next: Epilogue: Where No Man has Gone Before
Chapter 10b: The Animal Song
Master post
Wordcount: 15,000
It's a poor idea to allow himself to be drawn into this, Eames thinks, as Arthur guides him to the bed and kisses him senseless.
But how could Eames fail to want this and more? How is it possible he slept with Arthur for all these years without knowing, without truly seeing?
Arthur straddles Eames' lap and takes off his cufflinks, one sleeve at a time. Eames watches, mesmerized, as Arthur undoes the buttons of his shirt, allows it to drop to the floor. He peels away Eames' clothing next, runs his palms up and down Eames' sides.
"Perhaps," Eames gasps, the last desperate breath of a man out of his depth, "Perhaps we can be--you can be the disciplinarian schoolteacher and I'll be the naughty--"
"Can we be an Eames that's come home and an Arthur that's missed him?" Arthur asks with a smile so sweet it shatters Eames. "And tomorrow we can be whatever you want us to be."
"You shouldn't make promises about tomorrow when you don't know the terms," Eames says, something twisting inside. "You don't know what I'll hold you to."
"I trust you."
"Not with everything." Eames places a palm on Arthur's sternum, feeling raw and sad. It's too late for Eames. There's no going back to the easy distance between him and Arthur, to the casual remove.
Arthur covers Eames' hand with his. "What's left?"
"We-"
"Things are going good, aren't they?" Arthur says. "This whole bucket list thing is really working out."
"Yes-"
"There's a saying: if it ain't broke, don't fix it," Arthur continues. "I think that applies perfectly here. We've got a great thing. It works without needing any tweaking or adjustments, really. It's great."
"Great," Eames echoes blankly.
"Sometimes it's better not to change things. Like when you examine a joke too closely, it's not that funny anymore, you know?" Arthur seems to gather himself. "I mean, there's no need to apply labels to a situation when it's working. They're limiting."
And there it is. Eames looks at Arthur steadily and says, "Is it?"
"Yes." Arthur lifts his chin. "This works. There's no need to-complicate things."
Eames stares up at regal line of Arthur's neck. It would be easy to capitulate. To give Arthur what he wants. "You say that as if things between us aren't already complicated."
"They're not, that's the point. We sleep together, you do your own thing, I-"
"I could leave tomorrow and never come back," Eames says. "Or you could. And that would be perfectly fine?"
Arthur's jaw tightens. "Theoretically. But why would either of us do that when-"
"Arthur." Eames sits up, causing Arthur to shift away. "What if I want more than this lack of definition?"
The blood drains from Arthur's face. "We agreed-"
"I know what we agreed to. I'm asking if-"
"Why are you doing this?" Arthur's tone is suddenly accusatory, as if Eames is committing an act of gross betrayal. "Why are you trying to ruin this?"
His words cut. Eames was expecting them, but not how much they sting. "Because I want more. From you. From us."
"I don't know what more you think I have to give." Arthur's hands ball into fists. "I told you from the beginning there was one thing I wouldn't do. I told you, and I don't want things to change."
"I know you don't. Unfortunately," Eames sucks in a breath that aches, knowing he can't take this back, "I can't stay if things don't change."
Arthur stumbles away from the bed, as if he'd been struck. "What?"
"I don't need or especially want monogamy, but I do-I need a relationship. A commitment of some kind. And I can't continue to-to fraternize with you if you won't provide that."
Arthur looks away. He's breathing hard, as if he's run several miles. "You don't-want me anymore. You're bored. You want--"
"What? No-"
"I agreed to help you with your bucket list and you know I'll see it through. You can add whatever you--you want to it and I'll do it. Anything. For as long as you-"
"Sex can't be the sole basis of our relationship any longer," Eames interrupts, the words dragging over an obstruction in his throat. "I'm sorry. It can't be."
Arthur runs both hands through his hair, paces to the other side of the room. "I don't understand. Are you saying you'll stop? That we won't-"
"I can't have sex with you without it meaning something. I can't spend time with you, talk to you, be-" Eames chokes on the words. "I don't think I'll even be able to work with you. If we can't come to an agreement on this."
The fire's gone from Arthur's voice, his body. His shoulders are narrow and hunched. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No." Eames wants to pull Arthur close, murmur: nevermind, you're wonderful, I'm mad about you, let's forget I said anything. Arthur would kiss him and take him to bed. He could make Arthur dimple again. "You've been entirely too wonderful, in fact. Much more than I could have ever dreamt."
"Then why do you want to leave me?" Arthur's voice is barely a whisper.
"I don't. That's the point. I don't want to ever leave you, which is why-"
"Relationships end. They always do. But this can-"
"I'm too old to wait around hoping the person I want to be with wants me, too," Eames says. "And this can't go on forever. I won't let it."
"Then is this-" Arthur's voice is hoarse. "Is this the end?"
"Not yet," Eames says, struggling to keep his own words steady. "I think we should both take some time to think over where we stand."
"How long?"
Eames grasps blindly at a timeframe, a part of him going into shock at the idea that he might not see Arthur again after it. "A week."
"A week." Arthur seems to be reeling. Eames is, a little, himself. "The flight to the Virgin Islands is two days from now."
"We don't have to-"
"No." Arthur straightens his shoulders. "We should go. We need to finish the last item on your list."
"Are you--"
"Yes. I agreed to finish that list with you and I intend to live up to my promise." Arthur walks to the door of the bedroom and says, without turning, "Do you really want this to end?"
"I need someone who wants to be with me," Eames says. "If we want different things, it's best we acknowledge that."
"What if I don't have it in me?" Arthur touches the doorway. "What if I can't go through-losing someone again?"
"You won't go without for long," Eames says. "There are others who can give you everything you could possibly want. I simply-can't, anymore."
* * * * *
Arthur claims the chaise lounge in the evening, watching yet another version of Star Trek on the television. Eames putters about the flat, waiting for Arthur to retire to the bedroom, but the evening becomes the early morning and Arthur still hasn't moved.
Eames gives up and goes to bed, sleeping fitfully and ready to reach for Arthur's warm body, claim sleepy ignorance of his actions.
Arthur doesn't join him, and Eames wakes up alone.
* * * * *
Eames spends the next day on the chaise lounge. He studies Korean grammar and doesn't allow himself to wonder where Arthur is. What right has he to call, to text, to inquire? None. Arthur is free, and shows all signs of wanting to remain so indefinitely.
Arthur returns late, reeking of liquor. He goes to bed without comment, though Eames notices that the light stays on well past four AM.
* * * * *
The next morning, Arthur rouses Eames with a light touch on the shoulder.
"You want to go for a run?" Arthur asks, almost timidly.
Eames sits up, muscles aching from sleeping on the lounge. He shakes his head. "I think I'm going to head to bed now."
"Sure." Arthur steps back. "I'll see you later."
* * * * *
Eames wakes for a second time to an enormous box of expensive chocolates on the pillow beside him. He feels a twinge of déjà vu, and wonders if this is the last time Arthur will attempt to woo him with sweets.
There can be no room for half measures. A clean break and absolutely no contact for at least a year if this all goes pear-shaped. More pear-shaped than it already has, that is. The temptation to linger in dissatisfied perpetuity, taking whatever scraps of affection Arthur will toss his way, is far too great.
Eames opens the box. The first morsel is a flood of delicious flavor as he scans the bedroom, a million miles from what it used to be.
Gone is the cramped bed, replaced with something large and comfortable, space enough for two men to sleep in. Arthur's shoes no longer litter the floor, having been relegated to closets. The walls are hung with art, tasteful pieces from Arthur's collection, all to Eames' liking.
Will Arthur revert to his usual disorganization once Eames is gone? Most likely. There's no reason to believe that a desire for cleanliness will linger once Eames is no longer there to enforce it.
There's a knock on the bedroom door. "Yes?" Eames replies, bracing himself.
Arthur opens the door but doesn't step in. "Did I wake you?"
"Not at all," Eames says, and holds up the half-eaten box of chocolates. "I hope you weren't planning to give these to anyone else."
"You know there's no one-" Arthur stops. "The flight is in four hours. A car to the airport is on its way here."
"I should pack, then."
Arthur stares at Eames. Eames doesn't meet his gaze; the last thing he needs is to start mentally rhapsodizing about Arthur's sad eyes and the bridge of his beautiful nose. "I hope you like the chocolates."
"They're delicious," Eames says, not sure he'll be able to taste the rest at all.
* * * * *
Arthur works the whole flight and Eames reads three women's magazines, catching up on the major fashion trends of the past year. They don't speak.
The hotel is quite picturesque, with a private beach and manicured grounds. Arthur visibly perks up when well-tended gardens come into view, and Eames allows himself the pleasure of secretly watching Arthur peer out the window.
Would it really be so terrible to continue on like this, to hoard whatever bits of Arthur are available, to bask in Arthur's kisses and pretend that one day he'll say-
"Your baggage, sir?" The driver says, and Eames shakes himself out of his wishful reverie. What are romantic words, anyway? Sudheer lives for Arthur's romantic words and where has that gotten him?
"The fursuits should arrive tomorrow," Eames says once they've checked in. They have separate rooms on opposite sides of a long hallway. "I'll have them laundered."
"Great. Will we be doing this in your room or mine?"
"Yours," Eames says. He wants to be able to leave quickly once they're done. The last thing he needs is a pity cuddle after.
"Do you want to get dinner?" Arthur's voice drops slightly. "Room service?"
Every part of Eames wants to say yes, right down to his toes. "I don't think that'd be a good idea."
Before Eames can duck into his room, Arthur stops him with a hand on his elbow. "Do you hate me?"
Eames stares down at Arthur's cufflinks. "No."
"You could ask for anything else in the world and I'd give it to you."
Eames tugs free of Arthur's grasp. "I know."
* * * * *
"This is a predicament," Federico says.
"This is lunacy, but at least it will be coming to an end soon," Eames replies as he dips his feet into the stream.
"Such a small thing you ask. No marriage, no monogamy. Do you really think he'll let you go?"
Eames watches his reflection shift into something female and familiar: Malaya. She peers back at him solemnly. "I can't honestly believe I'll be the exception to all his rules."
"Then why are you doing this?"
"Because sometimes things must end." Eames' reflection shimmers back into his own. "Sometimes we have to let people go."
"You're really going to walk away?"
"I must." Eames gives in to the temptation to watch his projection of Arthur, weeding a small plot of land across the water. "I have a plane ticket back to Mombasa on Tuesday. He won't follow me there."
"You're going to end it in fursuit sex?"
"What else should I end with? Tearful lovemaking?"
Federico squeezes Eames' shoulder. "Won't you be lonely?"
"Painfully lonely." Eames runs his palm over the heather plants, still stubbornly in bloom. "But I'll survive. As will he."
* * * * *
Eames steps out the back entrance of the hotel onto glittering white sand. The beach is private, immaculate, and dotted with several other hotel patrons. Several lifeguard stations are positioned halfway to the water.
As he walks down the beach, more than a few heads swivel in his direction. A group of young women glance coyly and Eames winks, sparking a flurry of giggles.
When he reaches the ocean, he dives in. Sometime later, after he's tired from flailing about like a loon, he finds a clean patch of sand and dozes. He's stirred to wakefulness by something blocking his sunlight.
"H'lo," Eames says sleepily, opening his eyes to a vaguely familiar face-one of the lifeguards. The boy can't be more than eighteen, shoulders still underdeveloped and bare chest more flat than fit. Handsome face-dark eyes, tan skin-though about a decade too young for Eames. Shame.
"Excuse me, sir, I'm sorry to bother you," the lifeguard says, shifting his weight from side to side nervously. "The hotel wants to remind all guests that when spending more than an hour in the sun, it is important to regularly apply sunscreen."
"What excellent advice." Eames sits up and notes with some pleasure the way the boy's gaze flickers towards his crotch. "Do you happen to have any sunscreen with you? I've no idea where I packed mine."
"Yes. Um. Yes," the lifeguard stutters.
"What a darling you are," Eames purrs as he reaches halfway for the proffered tube. "Unfortunately-well, this may seem rather silly of me, but I'm afraid there are some locations where it's difficult to apply and I know how even coverage is key to preventing the horrors of skin cancer."
"Um." The boy swallows, and Eames can practically hear the cogs whirring in his mind. "I'd be-I mean, I could-if you're comfortable with-"
"You'd be willing to help?" Eames asks, promptly rolling onto his stomach and glancing back over his shoulder. "I would deeply appreciate any assistance you could render."
By the time Arthur appears, the lifeguard's finished with Eames' back, fingers lingering at the very lowest region, hovering right above his arse.
"Hello," Arthur says, looming over them both. The lifeguard mutters some hasty excuses and flees in terror.
"You've scared the poor boy off." Eames sighs. "Now who will diligently guard my life from melanomas?"
"I think you'll manage." Arthur digs out another bottle of sunscreen and drops it dangerously close to Eames' head.
"Yes, but there's a difference between simply eating food versus being fed grapes by buxom young maidens," Eames says. "One is about sustenance. The other is about hedonistic delight."
"I'll keep that in mind." Arthur kneels by Eames and picks up the sunscreen. "Roll over. I'll do your front."
Arthur's wearing a rather fashionable set of madras swim trunks, slim-cut but tasteful, and his skin seems to glow in the sunlight. Eames wants to lick him. This is all headed in a bad direction.
"Why, Arthur." Eames flutters his eyelashes as he leans back and pillows his head in his palms. "Are you offering to peel my grapes?"
"Is that what kids are calling it these days?" Arthur's hands-and the lotion-are cool, soothing against Eames' hot skin.
Eames works to control his breathing as Arthur works down his neck, over his collarbones, and across his pectorals. Arthur's thumbs brush not-quite-accidentally against Eames' nipples, smooth down his sides to the grooves of his hips. "And here I thought I'd be the one winding you up," Eames murmurs, feeling his dick begin to fill.
"You know you already are," Arthur murmurs, leaning over Eames. "Lying out here, waiting to be devoured."
Eames means to leave it at that, roll over onto his front and ignore the crackling energy between them. Except he can't, not with the memory of Arthur's palms across his torso, his abdomen, his hips.
Eames reaches over and kisses Arthur, kisses him madly and recklessly the way he's been craving all week. Mutters, "Come inside with me, come with me, I need you," and Arthur does.
They stumble back to Eames' room, frantic like it's been a drought of years, not days. Eames licks over every inch of Arthur's chest, down his arms, and nuzzles at the fouled anchor hidden on the inside of his bicep. Semper fi, the text reads underneath, and Eames kisses that, too.
Eames eases down Arthur's tiny black Speedos, noses at the pink head of Arthur's cock. There's the smell of musk, of the ocean, of something so wide and vast Eames can't begin to wrap his mind around it.
Eames starts with the balls first, licks and sucks them tenderly. Arthur tenses, but Eames is careful, telling him without words that there's nothing to fear.
"Please," Arthur whispers, hips moving restlessly.
Eames moves up Arthur's inner thighs, sucks not quite hard enough to leave marks. He licks the underside of Arthur's cock, lays open mouthed kisses all around the base before finally, finally allowing himself to suck at the head. There's the bite of sea salt, though the oozing precome tastes only of Arthur, warm and unexpectedly sweet.
"Here." Arthur threads his fingers through Eames' hair and urges him up. "Come here."
Eames releases Arthur's cock reluctantly, allows himself to be pulled up, but resists Arthur's attempts to catch his lips. Instead, he licks along the side of Arthur's neck, bites at his ear.
"Put your cock inside me," Arthur says. "I want to feel you. I want you to-"
"No." Eames pulls back. "No, I can't."
"Eames-"
"Don’t make me." Eames hears his voice crack as he turns his face away. "Please don't make me, Arthur."
Arthur goes quiet, still gripping Eames. One by one, his fingers release. "I won't. It's okay."
It's not okay. Nothing is okay, but Eames climbs onto the bed anyway. "Fuck me," he says, getting on his hands and knees. "Fuck me like this."
Arthur hesitates, then maneuvers into position behind him. "Alright."
Eames spreads his legs and readies himself for lube, for Arthur's chilly fingers. He's not pleased when Arthur begins to kiss his back, as thoroughly as Eames had investigated Arthur's body earlier.
Arthur wraps one warm hand round Eames' cock as he kisses, cradling as his mouth dips lower and lower. Eames knows it's coming and yet can't properly relax.
"It's okay, baby," Arthur says, stroking the small of Eames' back, his side. "I'm here."
Don't call me that, Eames wants to say. He can't, though. He wouldn't mean it.
Bit by bit, the tension eases in Eames' back. As he relaxes, everything feels better, Arthur's tongue a persistent thrum of pleasure against Eames' hole. Eames sighs as he lowers his head, cheek resting on a pillow, legs splayed.
Arthur kisses up Eames' spine and turns them both onto their sides.
"Like this," Arthur murmurs as he slicks Eames and presses inside. "Like this, okay?"
Eames acquiesces though he shouldn't, spooned in Arthur's warmth. The feel of Arthur's cock inside, full and deep, is good. It's a far cry from the way they used to fuck. Arthur knows every inch of Eames' body now, how to coax each nerve into song.
"I saw you in that tiny swimsuit on the beach and had to talk to you, to make you see me," Arthur breathes into Eames' ear. "I would have blown you right there if you asked."
Eames groans, wanting Arthur to stop, wanting him to never stop.
"I couldn't believe it when you reached for me, when you brought me back here. It was driving me crazy not to touch you." Arthur catches Eames' chin, doesn't let him turn away. "I missed you. Talking to you and running with you and waking up to you-"
"Don’t," Eames rasps.
"Stay with me," Arthur whispers, his forehead pressing against Eames'. "Please stay."
"I want to," Eames says, opening his eyes, trapped by Arthur's gaze. "You know I do. All you have to do is say."
Arthur kisses him and says nothing. Eames squeezes his eyes shut, allows himself to fall over the edge of orgasm with Arthur wrapped around him, immeasurably far away.
* * * * *
"Do you want me to go?" Arthur asks.
Eames doesn't open his eyes, halfway to sleep. "No."
* * * * *
"Good afternoon," Eames says when Arthur stirs.
Arthur's gaze goes directly to where Eames stands by the window, no sleepy disorientation to speak of. "Afternoon."
"I ordered room service. It should be arriving any minute now." Eames resumes watching the waves break against the shore. "Quite a bit of food. You're welcome to whatever you'd like."
"Thanks."
In his peripheral vision, Eames can see Arthur sitting up gingerly. Awkward, as if he doesn't know what to do in the situation he's found himself in. "It occurs to me that I may have been sending mixed signals earlier today," Eames says. "My libido got the best of me on the beach and I must apologize. I didn't mean to-"
"Give me false hope?" Arthur has one leg bent in front of him, the sheet draped over it rather elegantly. He's examining it. "Make me think we were back to normal?"
"Yes," Eames says. Through the window, a bird appears on the horizon. "It wasn't my intention to be cruel or mislead you in any way. My desires have not changed. Nor have yours, I presume."
"Sex won't fix it, huh?"
"No." The bird glides through the air, coming to hover over a sandbar several hundred feet from shore.
"You really want this?" Arthur moves to the edge of the bed, legs dangling over the side. He's naked, soft dick a vulnerable curve along his bare thigh.
"Yes."
"You really want me?" Arthur asks, and Eames turns.
It's not a flattering angle. The late-afternoon sun deepens the normally imperceptible wrinkles across Arthur's face, highlights the not few number of scars etched across his body. Arthur hasn't waxed the minor amount of hair on his chest recently; it's growing in coarse and grey.
There's nothing delicate about Arthur's feet, which are long and veined and calloused. His fingers, while tremendously capable, have never been elegant despite well-trimmed nails and the occasional manicure. His hairline is aggressively receding.
He looks terribly tired. Terribly human.
"Yes," Eames says. He wants it all.
"I could fuck it up. I usually do."
"Perhaps." Eames shrugs. "Perhaps I will, as well."
"You'll have to deal with Sudheer in some capacity probably for as long as I'm alive," Arthur says. "I don't think things will ever be completely done between me and him."
Eames huffs a laugh. "I'd assumed as much."
"I don't want to be monogamous. I don't want to get married. Probably ever."
"Neither do I."
Arthur looks down at his scarred, knobby knees. "I'm getting older, too."
"Good. Keep me company."
"This isn't about sex for you?"
"We've had some dreadful sex," Eames says, dryly, and to his surprise, Arthur chuckles. "Some mediocre, some good, some bloody amazing. No, that's not what this is about."
"Eames," Arthur starts, and is interrupted by a sharp rap on the door.
"That must be room service," Eames says, and goes to fetch the food. He returns, and Arthur has set out two chairs either side of a small table.
"Look," Arthur says, taking a deep breath as if he's prepared some remarks. He doesn't appear pleased with what he's about to say. Sounds grim, in fact, jaw set like he's point on a job, ready to tackle the gruesome task no one else wants. "This is the happiest I can remember being in a long time. And it's probably mostly due to you."
Eames blinks, not sure what he's hearing. All the blood seems to be rushing through his ears, like an ocean's roar. "Ah."
"This relationship thing." Arthur's put on some trousers, is buttoning up his shirt. "Nothing will change?"
"I don't know if I can promise that," Eames says, after a pause. "I'm quite smitten with you and that may manifest in unexpected ways."
Arthur's chin dips closer to his chest. "Yeah, I guess I'm. I'm pretty, uh, smitten with you, too."
"That's-splendid." Eames feels his face heat and realizes, to his horror, that he might actually blushing. Blushing.
"We'll be in a relationship, huh?" Arthur hasn't looked up, doesn't seem to have noticed. He rolls his shoulders, as if testing the weight of the word. "Do you want me to call you every day?" Eames' first instinct is to say no, because why would he? But then there's the way Arthur adds, "I could, I mean, if you really wanted me to."
Arthur, the man who adores flowers and kisses by candlelight. "Yes," Eames replies. "I'd like that very much."
"Okay. I guess I could do that." Arthur's avoiding eye contact, voice gruff. "If you want."
"Okay." Eames sets down the tray of food he's still holding. He might be in a state of shock. "We should probably eat this before it gets cold."
"That's all you have to say?" Arthur finally looks up. "I'm confronting my soul-crushing fear of commitment and all you have to say is, better eat before the food gets cold?"
"Soul-crushing seems a bit extreme," Eames murmurs and, at Arthur's expression, hastily adds, "I do take your meaning, though. To be honest, I-wasn't expecting this outcome. I composed a speech wishing you well and saying goodbye forever, if you'd like to hear that instead."
Arthur laughs and scrubs a hand across his face. There's a tinge of hysteria in it. "A speech?"
"I can list for you some of the emotions I'm feeling right now." Eames glances out the window; the bird alights on the sandbar, seeming content to perch on a rock. "Excitement, joy, bewilderment, relief, surprise, possibly the beginnings of indigestion. It's quite overwhelming."
Arthur chuckles a bit more, dropping into a chair. "Same here, I guess. Minus the indigestion."
Eames goes to stand by the table, hand hovering in the air, half-expecting Arthur to change his mind and bolt. Arthur watches and waits, quietly, until Eames screws up the courage to touch his cheek. "I'm tremendously happy right now. So much so it's difficult for me to express."
Arthur leans his cheek into Eames' palm. "Me, too."
* * * * *
Eames finds himself in a part of the hanging gardens he's never been. At least, that's what he believes until he glances up at the clear sky above and realizes he must be on the temple roof; it's simply changed since last he visited.
There are trees, of course, most having matured out of their kelly green sapling forms. The forest floor is now covered with a thick layer of heather, laden with mauve-colored flowers.
Eames walks to the mossy knoll shaded by a weeping willow. Planted nearby is one of the London Plane trees Arthur pointed out, its trunk bending curiously towards the willow, branches weaving through the willow's curtain of leaves.
"There you are," Arthur says. He stands up from where he was kneeling beside-and probably smelling-familiar button-like flowers. Tansies. "I was looking for you."
"Here I am," Eames replies, trying not to shuffle his feet shyly like a boy. "Now that you have me, what do you plan to do?"
Arthur stares off into the distance, expression thoughtful. As if he were contemplating a real answer to Eames' flirtatious questioning. "Be careful, I guess." He pauses. "Now that I have something I don't want to break."
Eames ducks his head as a wave of bashfulness washes over him. Ridiculous to feel at his age, and with someone he's known as long as Arthur. "No overwhelming panic or the need to sprint for freedom?"
"A little panic," Arthur admits. "Mostly I'm okay. I don't know. I'm not that good at talking about all this feelings stuff."
Eames picks a yellow flower and tucks it into Arthur's buttonhole. "I know. Despite all appearances to the contrary, I don't much enjoy talking about them either. Let's only do it when necessary, hm?"
Arthur smiles, raising a silver eyebrow. "Define 'necessary.'"
"If you're unhappy or dissatisfied, you should tell me and we can work to rectify the situation."
"When Sudheer and I had problems, I'd yell at him and he'd yell at me and then we'd fuck."
"Did you ever actually address the issues?"
"Is that what we were supposed to be doing?"
"Can't keep running away forever." Eames taps the flower in Arthur's buttonhole. "Best to confront such things head-on."
"I guess we've been doing okay at that so far," Arthur allows. "Resolving issues. Talking. Feelings."
Eames laughs. "Yes, I suppose we have."
"I added a few levels to the temple, including the menagerie you suggested." Now it's Arthur's turn to look bashful. "Do you want to see?"
"Of course," Eames says, because he'd agree to set the moon on fire if Arthur were to suggest it.
They tour the expanded temple-multiple new levels filled with plants, flowers, a small collection of animals (including that damn boa constrictor). Each level is airy yet contained, well-lit but not too bright, connected by whimsically paradoxical staircases. It's incredible, transcendent-a living, growing embodiment of Arthur's mind.
All those years ago, Eames broke in and hadn't the faintest idea what he was seeing. All those years.
They return to the weeping willow. Beneath it, a bed has formed from heather and moss--a soft, fragrant impossibility made solid.
"It's brilliant," Eames says. "The animals, the plants, the staircases-everything."
Arthur smiles, wide and dimpled. "Thank you. I wouldn't have-I was ready to give up on this place. I'm glad you convinced me not to."
Arthur kisses Eames, sweet and impossibly tender. Eames feels his heart swell, basking in Arthur's warm regard, and marvels that this could be his life.
They have sex underneath the willow tree, Arthur riding Eames' cock beautifully first. They come and then kiss and kiss, until Eames aches for Arthur's cock inside him and practically mewls when he receives it.
They've done this a hundred times, maybe more. There should be nothing new left to discover, to do, and yet something about the way Arthur's arms encircle Eames feels entirely different than what's come before.
* * * * *
"Are you ready?" Eames asks, balancing a mobile against his shoulder and a giant panda head in his hands.
"Yes," Arthur says, decisive across the phone line. "My burrow is awaiting your arrival."
Eames chuckles as he hangs up. Arthur's being an excellent sport about all this fursuit nonsense; Eames makes a mental note to thank and reward him for it later.
He steps into the hotel hallway, the panda suit every bit as ungainly as he'd expected it to be, and knocks on Arthur's door. He barely remembers to put on the panda head before the door opens.
"Welcome to the burrow of Longtail Nutcatcher," Arthur intones, muffled by the enormous squirrel head he has on. "Would you like an acorn? Some bamboo?"
"Uh." Eames walks inside and surveys his options, slowly, because the panda head eliminates most peripheral vision and is by no means easy to turn. The way Arthur's arranged the room does vaguely resemble a nest or burrow, and there is a bowl of acorns next to a bamboo plant. "I'm fine for now. Can't grip much with my paws."
"Would you like me to groom your fur?" Arthur asks, taking a mostly steady step forward in the squirrel suit. "Smooth your tail?"
It occurs to Eames that Arthur may have spent quite a bit of time on this endeavor. The nest, the bamboo, the fursona-far more energy than Eames had expended, himself.
"Perhaps we could skip straight to the humping each others' legs," Eames suggests, already sweating and itchy in his suit.
"Yes, we can-we can do that." Arthur shuffles forward and manages to squeeze a furry leg in between Eames', one paw coming up to pet Eames' arms jerkily. "Your fur is soft and-glossy. It makes me hot."
This is how Eames finds himself rubbing up against a grown man in a squirrel suit. He wants to laugh desperately, but there's nothing jocular in Arthur's demeanor. There's something about Arthur's seriousness, his commitment to the character, his grim determination--
"I love you," Eames blurts out. "Oh god, I love you."
Arthur falls back, staring at Eames in what can only be abject horror. It's hard to tell with the squirrel head in the way, but Arthur's eyes are the widest Eames has ever seen them.
"I--I have to go," Arthur says as he turns tail--literally, in this case--and runs (staggers, really) out the door.
Eames stares after him, not sure what horrible manner of thing has just taken place.
As Eames ponders what he's done, there's a muffled rasping at the door, then a knock. Eames shuffles over to the peephole and gets an eyeful of enormous snout. It takes a full five minutes to figure out how to work a doorknob with his mostly useless panda paw.
Arthur walks back inside, heads to the nearest wall and slides into a squatting position. His tail is drooping.
"What happened to your great escape?" Eames asks.
"I'm wearing a giant squirrel suit in a hotel," Arthur says wearily. "Where can I escape?"
Eames tries to restrain the laugh that bubbles up, but it proves too much to contain and he snorts into the side of his panda head. Arthur gives him a baleful eye but soon there's the unmistakable sound of chuckling emanating from the squirrel suit as well.
"I'm sorry," Eames says, honestly. "If you'd like to change and make another dramatic exit again, I can put on some tea while I wait."
Arthur shakes his head. "No, that's--we should," he takes a deep breath, "we should talk about this."
"Yes," Eames agrees, not entirely sure he's ready to hear what Arthur has to say. No backing down now, though, unfortunately.
"Did you mean it?"
Eames considers an eloquent, if cliche, turn of phrase such as: I've never meant anything more. He settles on, "Yes."
"You picked a hell of a time to say it."
"Yes, I. I didn't expect for it to happen this way."
"What, falling in love with me?"
"No--well, yes, that too," Eames says, although it seems perfectly obvious now, looking back on things, that he always would. "But I meant telling you like this."
"Ah." Arthur balances his paws on his knees.
"I meant it, you know." It occurs to Eames that Arthur might not believe him, and might merely write it off as the heat of an admittedly absurd moment. "I do find you to be--excellent."
"Excellent? That's all you got for me? I'm 'excellent?'"
"Well, it's--you're very--" Eames mentally fumbles through some adjectives that utterly fail at describing Arthur in all his funny, beautiful, and messy glory. "I have elaborate speeches I've wooed marks with, if you'd like me to recite those. One quotes from a Shakespearean sonnet. People have reacted favorably to that one in particular."
To Eames' surprise and a trifle bit of dismay, Arthur laughs. "Do you really think I want you to recite some second- or third-hand speeches?"
"This isn't quite-" Eames goes to scratch his nose, but sighs when all he gets is the awkward side of his paw bouncing against the panda head. "I didn't expect to say it, but now that I have I wish I'd done it better. That's all."
Arthur scoots closer to Eames, voice softening. "Don't you want to know if I feel the same way?"
Yes. No. "I certainly hope you do." Eames nudges a paw-encased foot along the floor until it brushes up against the leg of Arthur's squirrel suit. "But barring that, I hope that perhaps, eventually-you'll feel similarly."
They sit like that a while, until Eames finally says, "Let's get out of these bloody suits."
"Oh god yes," Arthur replies immediately. "I'm burning up in this thing."
When they're dressed as humans again as opposed to oversized animals, Arthur sits down on the couch and turns on the television. After a moment, Eames takes a seat as well, and Arthur's arm comes up to encircle his shoulders.
"Aren't you scared of what could happen?" Arthur asks, the question muffled against Eames' left bicep.
Eames tries to remember the last time he felt this raw, this exposed in front of another human being. He thinks, perhaps, he never has-not even with his ex-wife, not even when she left him. He had been so young then.
"Of course," Eames replies. "I'm terrified. But it's worth the fear, I think."
Arthur tightens his hold on Eames and exhales. "Yeah."
Eames tucks himself against Arthur's chest. He closes his eyes and allows the soft sounds of the television, the air conditioning, the meter of Arthur's breaths lull his mind into a state of quiet.
* * * * *
"Ignore what I said yesterday," Eames says. "The panda costume smelled like formaldehyde. I've likely suffered minor brain damage from inhaling the fumes."
Arthur looks up from his breakfast cereal. "You can't take something like that back."
"I can and I will," Eames says, ready to put this all behind them. "I retract all declarations from the previous evening."
"To be clear, you're referring to when you told me you lov--"
"Yes," Eames interrupts. "That's the one. As I said before, formaldehyde, hallucinations, etc. It's even affected my fine motor control. Do you see this? I've developed a twitch."
"A love twitch."
"Stop saying that word," Eames hisses. "This is not a joke--why are you laughing?"
"I'm not laughing," Arthur says, though at this point he's not even trying to hide it behind a napkin. "I'm choking on a piece of cereal."
"I am hereby redacting this and the previous evening's conversation from our shared history. We shall never speak of it again."
"What if I don't want to forget?" Arthur asks, quietly. He's no longer choking. "Do you--do you not feel that way anymore?"
Eames swallows. This is it. This could be the exit route for Arthur. For Eames. "It's not a matter of--that is to say, it's simply--disproportionate. It's all too much at once. Proclaiming love and being married and wanting a relationship and having a daughter--"
"You realize only a few of those things have to do with me?"
"I suppose I can't blame you for my entire lifetime's worth of poor decision-making," Eames concedes, trying to be flippant and somehow failing. "I always envisioned myself as a free agent, tied down by no obligations, beholden to no one. But here I am, married again, and likely to inherit my family's estate. I have a daughter who writes and asks me to come visit her at university. I spend a not insignificant amount of time engaging in an activity which could only be described as 'snuggling' night after night. With the same person, no less." He wrinkles his nose. "It all sounds like something my twenty-year-old self would have died before becoming."
"Eames." Arthur puts down his spoon and leans forward, elbows resting on the table. "We're not twenty anymore."
"No, we're not." Eames pauses. "Do you recall that boy we met on the beach, the lifeguard?"
"The one groping you under the extremely thin pretense of sunblock application? Yes."
Eames chuckles. "When I think of him, my daughter--they're barely people at all. And by that I mean, they aren't fully formed, they haven't quite developed into Someone yet. They're undifferentiated stem cells which haven't decided whether to become a red blood cell or a neuron or whatever else. They're symbols of potential, of opportunity, of an infinite number of futures. I miss that. That feeling of anything still being possible."
"You've become Someone. You're Eames," Arthur says. "And that's a hell of a lot more interesting than potential."
"I suppose." Eames feels a curious and complex pang of emotion for the rebellious, angry young man he used to be. Barely more than a child, desired by all, desperate for sex and attention in lieu of actual human connection. There's faint longing, accompanied by a surge of relief. That he doesn't have to live that way anymore. That he is't that person anymore. How strange. "But must you insist on such bald truths? Can't you allow me to wallow in comforting self-delusions of eternal youth for a while longer?"
"Should have picked a different partner if you wanted someone who wasn't going to give it to you straight," Arthur says, expression neutral. It occurs to Eames that Arthur has likely spent hours mulling over relationship titles, carefully considering possibilities such as lover, boyfriend, or companion, before ultimately discarding them. The word partner rolls off Arthur's tongue without pause, like it's something he's practiced. Eames feels his heart lift in an embarassing, tender gladness. "Besides, I don't want a twenty-year-old. I especially don't want the pain in the ass twenty-year-old you were."
That startles a laugh from Eames. "Can't blame you for that. I left a trail of angry women and weeping men everywhere I went in my twenties."
"Has much changed since then?" Arthur asks, wry.
"Perhaps not." Eames smiles. "Sweet talker."
"Is that something you'd like?" The mood shifts back to something more serious as Arthur ducks his head. "I'm not very good at--the talking part of relating, of relationships. But I could--work on it, maybe."
"I'd quite like it if you told me more of what you were thinking. Rather than having to divine it all myself," Eames says. "Though my divination skills are top-notch."
"I don't want to forget what you said to me earlier. I don't want it to have been because of--fumes." Arthur fishes something from his messenger bag and passes it to Eames, who views it with bemusement. "This is for you."
It's a relatively small cube, a beautifully wrapped present in a subtle blue and grey plaid paper. Eames shakes it, wonders if it's a sex toy or some kind of explosive, but the rattle inside tells him nothing.
Arthur steadfastly stares at the wall while Eames opens the box. Inside is a globe, sepia colored and delicate with age. It squeaks when Eames first tries to spin it, the mount rusty after all these decades, but eventually settles into a low hum.
"This is-" Eames starts to speak and falters. Memories return, countless hours spent waiting for the headmaster to see him, cataloguing every item on his desk. "How did you-"
"I had your headmaster's corpse exhumed and took it from his coffin," Arthur says. "Okay, maybe I didn't do that. It took some doing to track down this particular one though. I now have a fairly impressive collection of vintage globes."
Eames wants to crack a joke, tuck the object away with feigned nonchalance. He can't quite manage it, though. It couldn't have been easy, locating and retrieving this wholly unimpressive artifact of Eames' misspent youth.
Eames stares down at the globe, the faded lettering of countries no longer in existence, continents he never quite believed he'd visit. He remembers how he felt when he first held it, as if the whole world were within his grasp, if only he had courage enough to take the first step.
Arthur doesn't say anything. Instead, he reaches out.
Eames takes him by the hand.
fin
Poll Fic: There's got to be a morning after - Chapter 10: Animal Song
Next: Epilogue: Where No Man has Gone Before