Fic: Bliss
Bliss
Arthur/Eames | 4800 words | NC-17
Blue Lagoon AU. Arthur and Eames are stranded on a deserted island as children and fall in love as they grow older.
Written for The Inception Kink Fest 2.0 and originally posted in comment form here. Follows the movie very, very vaguely, although I guess you could say Arthur is Brooke Shields, um. Warnings for underage--the boys are sixteen here.
It wasn’t fair at all, the fact that Eames felt the need to be right all the time. Arthur remembered fondly the days when Eames would listen to him instead of frowning at every word Arthur said, head cocked to one side before replying simply, “I don’t like that.”
Nothing Arthur did these days was enough for Eames. He’d rigged their hut to catch rain water in the evenings, but Eames said it attracted too many bugs. When a particularly bad heat wave came, Eames refused to listen to Arthur about staying out of the sun, and he’d burned the back of his neck until it was red and raw.
And when Arthur suggested they search out the new herd of boar that had migrated to their side of the island, but Eames insisted on doing the hunting himself.
“You’re not strong enough,” Eames had said, mouth quirked into an infuriating smirk that made Arthur’s heart pound with rage. “I’m bigger than you, after all. You’ll only get hurt, or worse.”
The truth of the matter was that Eames had gotten quite bulky over the past several months. His shoulders had broadened considerably to match the thick muscles beginning to take shape in his upper arms, and Arthur had caught him more than once looking into the lagoon at himself as he flexed. Even his hands were wider now, and Arthur hated how small he felt next to Eames, though he’d managed to keep up with him where their height was concerned.
Arthur also hated how...unsettled he felt around Eames these days, when he wasn’t on the brink of punching him straight in the nose. It seemed as if there was a constant heat settled low in his belly that flared abruptly whenever Eames looked at him, or touched him in any way.
Several months ago Arthur had rolled over in the early morning hours to find Eames shirtless and fast asleep not two feet away from him. It hadn’t been anything out of the ordinary; they’d slept beside one another for years, since the days when they were children, alone and terrified of being apart from one another.
But on this morning, Arthur could not look away from the smooth lines of Eames’ back, the soft early morning light turning his tanned skin a warm caramel color. Eames had shifted in his sleep, his muscles ripping like a slow wave. He’d sighed deeply, and Arthur’s stomach had clenched in a sudden, overwhelming surge of heat. Everything below his waist felt tense, a strange eagerness Arthur could not define. He’d turned onto his stomach, pressed his hips down into the threadbare mattress salvaged from the wreck, and moaned at how good it felt. He did it again, and again, until he could barely breathe. A sharp terror grew in the back of his mind--what was this? What was happening to him? Was he sick? But no, nothing this good to be a sickness. Arthur buried his head in his arms, panting roughly, and a moment later, he shuddered and cried out, his body exploding with heat from the inside out. It was frightening and heady, and Arthur could do nothing but suck the air back into his lungs, wondering if he’d somehow died and been miraculously brought back to life.
He’d wondered if Eames had had anything to do with it. And in the days that followed, Arthur couldn’t stop thinking about that morning, and whenever he thought of Eames at the same time, the shivery spark of warmth grew in his belly.
Eames, however, grew more and more infuriating, until Arthur despised the way his body reacted to every little thing Eames did. Besides, it had become quite apparent that Eames was not having the same troubles as Arthur. If anything, Eames was starting to think of Arthur as a nuisance. A weak, childish nuisance, regardless of the fact that they had both recently turned sixteen (Arthur kept track of the days in his little notebook, knew they had been on this island for close to eight years).
“I’m plenty strong,” Arthur shot back. He straightened his shoulders--they may not have been as broad as Eames’, but he did have some muscles. Eames wasn’t the only one who did his share of physical labor.
Eames just sighed. “Not like me, you’re not. What if the boar pins you to the ground? You’ll be able to fight him off?”
“We’ll work together,” Arthur said through gritted teeth. It never used to be an issue; they had always been a team, as close as brothers. But the last year or so, things changed. Eames had changed. And Arthur hated it.
“I don’t think so,” Eames replied with a haughtiness that made Arthur see red. “We’re running low on wood, so maybe you should go and gather up some--”
“You don’t give me orders!” Arthur shoved at Eames’ chest, catching him off guard and sending him stumbling back several paces.
Eames blinked at him in shock. Then his eyes narrowed sharply. “Don’t touch me like that,” he said in a low voice.
“Then don’t treat me like a fucking child.” The curse startled then both; Arthur had never uttered the word out loud, although he remembered hearing his father use it on rare occasions.
“I’m older than you, I make the decisions!”
“You’re two months older than me, and I don’t have to do anything you say. You’re not my father.” He dropped his voice into a deep, menacing register, satisfied with the way it made Eames’ cheeks grow pink.
“You’ll get hurt!” Eames sputtered.
“I’m faster than you! I’m also smarter, in case you weren’t aware.” The latter part wasn’t exactly true--Eames was terribly clever, and he knew how to make Arthur laugh when he wanted to. But Arthur wanted to him to feel the same hurt that was welling up inside him, the same hurt that came from realizing your best friend no longer needed or wanted you.
Eames’ shoulders slumped. He winced as if struck, and Arthur instantly wanted to take the words back. “If you’re so brilliant, go kill the bloody thing yourself,” Eames said before stomping off into the forest.
“Fine, I will!” Arthur shouted after him. It wasn’t until Eames disappeared into the trees that he realized his hands were shaking.
Arthur did, in fact, spend the rest of the day collecting drift wood for their evening fire. It was mostly an excuse to walk alone on the beach and think about how much he hated Eames, how he’d give anything to be off this island and away from him. Eames was all Arthur had known for nearly half his life, and when he thought about it too much it overwhelmed him. Eames knew everything about Arthur, his secrets, his dreams, all of it.
At least he doesn’t know about my...condition, Arthur thought as he kicked at the sand. If only Eames knew what it was like to wake up in the morning aching and hot, feeling as if your skin is two sizes too small, and then to hold the feeling with you all day like a fever. Maybe then Eames would stop being so damn frustrating.
But as night fell, Eames didn’t return. Arthur made the fire like always, glancing over his shoulder every so often. They’d never fought like before, and Eames had certainly never taken off into the jungle alone for this long. Sometimes Eames was so--so stupid and pig-headed, and Arthur hated him. He hated him more than anything. If Eames wanted to stay gone, let him. Arthur didn’t care at all.
This didn’t explain the ache in Arthur’s chest as he sat curled up by the fire, wrapped in an old blanket that once belonged to Eames’ family. It smelled a bit like Eames, mostly because he slept with it on the colder nights. Sometimes Arthur would burrow under the blanket with him, pressed up along Eames’ back for warmth, and Eames would sigh quietly and tell Arthur stories in the dark about growing up in England as the son of a nobleman. Arthur would listen to Eames’ voice, a rolling comfort with a lilt to it that Arthur knew by heart, until eventually he’d fall asleep with his face tucked against Eames’ shoulder.
Arthur swallowed against the knot in his throat, pulling the blanket tighter around himself.
He woke the next morning to hand on his arm, and a familiar voice whispering his name.
Arthur jerked awake, blinking in the early morning light. His arm was stiff from having slept on it wrong; he’d fallen asleep beside the fire instead of going back into their hut. He looked up and found Eames kneeling beside him, his hair a mess, his shirt gone. Every inch of his skin was filthy, like he’d been rolling in mud.
He was also covered in ugly, bloodied scratches.
“What--what happened to you?” Arthur asked, voice rough with sleep. He swiped at his eyes, heart suddenly pounding too hard.
Eames bit his lip, looking down at himself as if noticing the mess for the first time. “Oh.” He glanced back up at Arthur and gave him a lopsided, sheepish grin. “I caught one. He put up a right fight, but I got him.”
“You killed a boar?”
“Yeah. He was massive. I’ll make you a feast fit for a king.”
You could have died. Arthur reached out, traced tentative fingers over the gashes on Eames’ chest and arms. “I don’t want a feast,” he whispered. “We’ll need to save the meat, anyway.” His mind was full of images of Eames lying broken and lifeless, his blood spilling out onto the jungle floor.
“There will be plenty of meat, believe me.” Eames watched the path of Arthur’s fingers, holding very still. He hissed when Arthur touched a fresh wound just above his heart.
“You’re filthy,” Arthur said. He didn’t know why it was so difficult to breathe. “Go wash yourself off before you get infected.” His mother had been a nurse, and Arthur had learned from a very young age that wounds and dirt did not mix.
Eames didn’t move right away. Instead, he pulled his lower lip into his mouth once more, worried it with his upper teeth. Arthur could not look away.
“Arthur, I--I should’ve let you come,” he said softly, sitting back on his heels as he rubbed his palms over his tattered, worn trousers. “But I didn’t--it’s all right if I get a few scratches, see, but you--it’s different.”
“Different?” Arthur asked. He had that same feeling again, of his skin being too tight, too warm.
Eames took a deep breath. “I just want to...to...” He looked down at his hands, shook his head, then swore. Arthur had never heard him say fuck before.
“Never mind,” Eames said, not meeting Arthur’s eyes. “I should get cleaned up. We’ll skin the boar later, yeah?”
“Sure.” Arthur didn’t know what else to say. He was shivering, but the morning air was quite humid.
He watched as Eames got to his feet and headed off in the direction of the lagoon nearby. The front of his trousers looked strange; instead of lying flat, there was an oddly-shaped bulge there, one that Eames tugged at awkwardly as he walked away.
Slowly, Arthur lifted back the blanket still wrapped around him. A similar bulge greeted him, pressing against the front of his own trousers. He splayed his hand over it, curled his fingers ever so slightly, and the instant rush of sensation made him gasp.
Arthur glanced back in the direction of the lagoon.
Maybe Eames knew more about his condition than Arthur originally thought.
Eames was quiet for the next several days, and Arthur wasn’t much better. There was a strange tension in the air between them; Arthur thought at first that maybe Eames was still angry at him for some reason, but it didn’t feel like anger. It didn’t feel like anything Arthur could properly put into words, and that frustrated him. Arthur had always liked being able to define the world around him into concrete terms.
They were also careful around each other, Eames especially. He seemed more conscious of touching Arthur, of being close to him. Sometimes Arthur would look up and find Eames watching him with his mouth twisted to one side, as if he somehow felt the same unnamed frustration that had been plaguing Arthur. It made him look unhappy, which in turn made Arthur’s stomach grow cold.
Whatever was happening, Arthur didn’t want Eames to be unhappy. The thought alone gave Arthur a rather startling desire to tuck Eames into his arms and whisper to him that everything would be all right. Eames had done the same for him for years now, it only seemed fitting that Arthur should return the favor.
In the end, that was how Arthur came to his decision to go hunting on his own--he would prove to Eames that he could fend for himself, that Eames didn’t need to worry so much about him. Arthur would show just how strong he was, even if he didn’t have Eames’ physical bulk.
He woke before dawn, turning over onto his side to find Eames’ hand stretched out toward him in sleep, his fingers just shy of touching Arthur’s shoulder. When they had fallen asleep the night before, Arthur distinctly remembered Eames lying down with his back to him, talking softly about a bird he’d seen that day until his voice faded off. He must have reached for Arthur in the middle of the night without even knowing it.
Arthur stared at the lovely broad hand, tanned knuckles and slack fingers, and for one terrifying moment, considered leaning over and kissing it. But that was such a strange thought to have; no one kissed hands, after all. Kissing was for mouths. At least, that was what Arthur’s sister had told him, many years ago before she, too, along with the rest of his family, was lost to the sea.
He sighed quietly before getting to his feet and heading to the lagoon. The ground was soft and moist there, and Arthur carefully and methodically applied the mud to his skin, hoping it would serve as camouflage as well protect him from the sun. He didn’t tan the way Eames did, much to Arthur’s dismay; Eames frequently liked to tease Arthur about his fair complexion, saying he was “lovely like a porcelain doll.”
They had two knives for hunting, but only one of them was large enough to kill a boar. It was a massive dagger with an ivory handle that had belonged to Eames’ father--”a gift from the Prince of Persia,” he’d told Arthur once. Arthur rarely used it, because it was one of the few things Eames still had from his family. He felt a guilty pang in his chest as he slipped the dagger from its leather pouch nestled amongst Eames’ clothes. He told himself he would return it by sunset, as good as new.
Arthur spared a glance over his shoulder before he left the hut. Eames was still dead to the world, his mouth slightly parted. He always appeared so young when he slept, his cheeks round and baby-soft, eyelashes too long to be a boy’s fanned out over the delicate skin below his eyes. His lips were very pink, very full, slick and shiny in the morning sunlight.
A jolt of heat tugged low in Arthur’s abdomen, spreading lower. He could feel the first signs of the now-familiar tightness growing there, a hardening of sorts. Arthur cupped himself, pressed the heel of his hand against the tension, and bit his lip as a soft moan nearly escaped him. He’d found over the past several days that if he rubbed himself for long enough, the tension would built, just like that morning in his bed, and explode suddenly into a heat that left behind a slickness that covered his penis. At first Arthur was humiliated, horrified that the sensations had caused him to wet himself. But upon inspection, he’d discovered that the wetness was something else entirely, something thick, pearly and translucent against his skin. He’d swiped his fingers through it, then licked them; the taste was salty, and somehow made Arthur shiver.
He didn’t understand how something so odd had come from his private parts--or his “cock,” as he’d heard his older brother Paul call it (Arthur, being all of nine years old at the time, had always blushed at the crude euphemisim). More than this, Arthur didn’t understand why the scent and taste and feel of the substance made his head swim and his skin grow hot all over again.
He’d been touching himself more and more since then, always careful to never let Eames catch on. God only knew what Eames would think if he did.
Arthur dropped his hand away from himself and turned back toward the jungle, leaving a sleeping Eames behind.
Arthur had been hunting before, but always with Eames in tow. They had been all of ten years old the first time they’d tracked a small deer, and ultimately it had been Eames who’d made the kill, shaking and nearly in tears by the time he’d slit the animal’s throat and had its blood all over his hands. Yet Arthur had managed to stay detached from it all; he was always the one to calm Eames down afterward, whispering to him as he cleaned the blood off that this was part of nature. Arthur had never been more thankful that his mother had given him Darwin to read as a boy--he understood the laws of nature better than Eames.
He didn’t have Eames’ knack for trailing, however, and within a few hours it became painfully obvious that Arthur was more than a little lost. He wasn’t used to wandering the jungle alone, and soon the trees began to look alike, tall and ominous and all but blotting out the sun. Nothing looked familiar to him anymore, and Arthur had yet to see a single boar.
He finally stopped in a clearing beside a small brook. It was quiet, the air cooler as he got closer to the water. Arthur toed his shoes off and dipped his bare feet into the softly rushing water, sighing contently for a moment. He’d never seen this place before, and he couldn’t help but think Eames would enjoy it.
As if responding to Arthur’s thoughts, the trees on the other side of the brook suddenly rustled. He heard a low growling sound, one that didn’t sound like that of a boar.
Arthur’s heart flew into his throat as he slowly reached for the dagger strapped to his hip. He didn’t move from the water, only crouched low and kept very still, thinking of his shoes sitting back on the bank. The growling grew louder, and wasn’t long before the source show itself to Arthur.
It was a black jungle cat. Arthur hadn’t seen one in ages; Eames had convinced him they had moved away because the nightly campfires frightened them. But this cat didn’t look frightened at all; it stared down Arthur with blazing green eyes, its teeth bared. All that separated them was a few feet of water.
Arthur could barely breathe. His palms grew sweaty, the dagger beginning to shake in his hand. He hadn’t accounted for this. He didn’t know what to do.
The cat crept into the water, its eyes never leaving Arthur’s. A terrifying silence enveloped them, as if the jungle was holding its breath, waiting to see what happened. Arthur felt like crying, but he wasn’t a child anymore. He no longer had that luxury.
He had no other choice but to grip the dagger with white-knuckle force and whisper to the jungle cat, “You don’t scare me.”
The cat’s tail lashed against the water, and it growled again, low and viscious.
Arthur closed his eyes, thought of Eames back at their hut, peaceful and asleep.
When he opened them again, the cat was crouched, ready to lunge and attack.
Arthur swallowed, looked the cat straight in the eye, and waited.
He heard Eames before he saw him--for a split second, Arthur thought he was dreaming. But he heard Eames’ voice screaming clear as day, “Arthur, no!,” too close to be anything but real. He blinked, turned his head, but the cat chose that moment to fling itself into the air at Arthur.
A burst of fire shot through the air over Arthur’s shoulder, colliding with the cat’s chest. The cat made an unholy sound of pain, lurching back to the bank as the fire fizzled into the water.
Arthur could do nothing but gasp in shock, staring in disbelief at the burnt torch now floating in the brook. He finally looked over his shoulder, and saw Eames standing behind him with another blazing torch in hand, glaring daggers at the wounded jungle cat.
“Get out of here,” Eames growled, “and don’t ever come back.” He wielded the fire at the cat, who winced and bared its teeth.
“Arthur, go get your shoes. Don’t make any sudden moves. I’ll take care of this.”
For once, Arthur didn’t argue with him. His knees wobbled slightly as he staggered back the the bank, unable to take his eyes away from the fierce, angry stance of Eames’ body, how every muscle stood out in stark relief. He knew instinctively that Eames was ready to fight, and it terrified him almost as much as it made an odd thrill shiver through his body.
For several long moments, the huge cat faced off with Eames, until Eames yelled, “Go!” and flung the torch across the water. It landed on the opposite blank with a flare of light and heat, and the cat screamed and ran, yowling as it disappeared into the jungle.
Arthur watched as the tension visibly left Eames’ shoulders, and in an instant he could finally see the real fear that Eames felt. Eames rubbed a hand across his face, then trudged through the water to where the fire still burned. He kicked it out quickly, then stood there with his head bowed and eyes closed.
“Eames,” Arthur called from across the brook. His voice broke on the end of his name.
Eames turned, looked at Arthur with wide, exhausted eyes, arms hugged around his chest.
There was no thought process to Arthur’s actions that followed. He didn’t put his shoes on, nor did he put the dagger back into its holster. He left everything on the blank and raced across the water to the other side, where Eames was watching him with a mixture of confusion and relief. Arthur was soaked from the waist down, but it didn’t stop him from grabbing Eames’ jaw with both hands and pulling him into a hard, messy kiss.
It was more like a desperate plea to share one another’s air; neither had kissed a person before, barely knew how to go about doing such a thing, and yet it felt completely natural when Arthur parted his lips and pushed his tongue against the seam of Eames’ mouth. Eames gasped, clung tightly to Arthur’s arms and let him inside, the tip of his own tongue slipping tentatively along Arthur’s teeth.
“Arthur,” he breathed roughly, “Arthur, why? Why did you do this?” Eames squeezed Arthur’s bicep, bit sharply at his lower lip, and Arthur could feel him shaking.
“I’m sorry, I only wanted--” Arthur pulled back to rest his forehead against Eames’. They were both panting. “I-I wanted to prove myself to you. To show you I wasn’t weak.”
“I’ve never thought you were weak, never.” Eames punctuated his words by sliding his hands up Arthur’s arms to cup his neck and pull him closer. “Bloody stupid fool, how could you ever think such a thing?”
Arthur shook his head. “The boar, you wouldn’t let me--”
“Because I was afraid something like this would happen. I can’t stand the thought of you--of losing--” He bit the word off with a savage kiss, their teeth colliding. Arthur whimpered, but opened his mouth wider, wanting to control the kiss and give into it all at once.
“I don’t want you to worry about me. I don’t want to be a nuisance to you,” Arthur gasped.
Eames groaned, suddenly jerking back. He framed Arthur’s jaw with his thumbs, fingertips laced at the base of Arthur’s skull. “You--you don’t even know,” Eames breathed, and suddenly that same pinched, unhappy look flared in his eyes. Arthur’s stomach dropped.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur whispered again.
“Damn it,” Eames said fiercely, “I’m not asking you to apologize, I only want--I want you to let me take care of you. That’s all. I want to protect you.” He buried his face against Arthur’s neck, which muffled his words. But Arthur heard every one; it made his chest grow tight, and a hot, liquid sensation pool deep inside him.
He suddenly wanted much, much closer to Eames, wanted every inch of his skin pressed against his. Arthur felt crazed for a moment, lost in the need to sink into Eames and never leave. His arms curled around Eames’ bare shoulders, fingertips splayed over smooth, sweat-slick muscle, and on instinct alone Arthur arched his body. The hardness he’d felt growing low around his cock rubbed up against the front of Eames’ trousers, and Eames shuddered in Arthur’s arms and groaned into his neck. He had a similar hardness, just like Arthur’s, and he jerked roughly when their groins met.
Arthur closed his eyes and gasped, “I want you to take care of me. I want this.” He didn’t quite understand what he was saying, but it was enough for Eames, who groaned again and slid his broad hands down Arthur’s sides, palming his hips tightly. He made a strange rolling motion with his own hips, and like a burst of flame, everything was awash with sensation and heat. Arthur clung to Eames, cried out softly when the feelings inside him became almost too much, and Eames answered him by kissing him, hard and wet, as if he needed Arthur’s breath to survive.
Somehow, they both sunk to their knees together, panting and moving against one another until Eames pushed Arthur onto his back and caged his body with his own. Arthur gazed up at him, at the breadth of his chest and shoulders, his powerful arms. But he felt--safe. Safe, and utterly cherished, especially when Eames ducked down to lick at Arthur’s mouth like a kitten savoring milk.
They shed their trousers, and it didn’t occur to Arthur until Eames was biting his lip as he stared down the length of their bodies that they were completely naked now. Arthur had seen Eames naked countless times, but never like this, with his skin tinged a lovely pink color and his, his cock rigid and curving up slightly toward his navel. Arthur’s mouth went wet, and he could not stop staring at it, how long it was, thick and slick at the head. Eames was solid, sinewy, perfect. Arthur could not imagine anyone more beautiful.
Eames breathed Arthur’s name, glancing up at him through his lashes. Arthur wet his lips and reached down to swipe his fingers over the top of Eames’ cock.
“Oh,” Eames gasped, eyes fluttering closed. “Oh.”
Arthur grew braver, flexed his hand as he took both Eames and his own cock into his hand. He didn’t know what he was doing at all, but his body knew what it wanted, and the instant their slick, hot flesh slid together, they both cried out, shaking, Eames’ face twisted as if in pain.
“Are you hurt?” Arthur gasped.
“God, no, don’t--don’t stop, please.” Eames thrust his hips a bit, pushing himself into Arthur’s fist, and the rush of heat began to bloom deep in Arthur’s stomach.
“Eames,” he moaned, and he was not alone when the wetness covered his hand. Eames’s voice broke on another high-pitched cry, and his cock spasmed in Arthur’s grip. There was more slickness, and strangely Arthur felt pleased.
He wiped his hand on the ground as Eames lowered himself on top of Arthur, kissing him slow and languidly. Arthur hissed softly--he was still tender, overstimulated, but not enough to make Eames stop. He let Eames kiss him as their hands made careful explorations of their bodies, learning one another for the first time.
“We should go back,” Eames whispered, pushing his nose gently against Arthur’s.
Arthur smiled sleepily, suddenly craving a nap. “In a minute,” he said. “We’re not in any rush. You’ve chased off all the danger, after all.”
Eames grinned and snuggled closer, one arm thrown across Arthur’s chest. “You’ll always be safe with me,” he murmured against Arthur’s cheek.
“I know,” Arthur said, and turned his head to kiss him.
end. ♥
Arthur/Eames | 4800 words | NC-17
Blue Lagoon AU. Arthur and Eames are stranded on a deserted island as children and fall in love as they grow older.
Written for The Inception Kink Fest 2.0 and originally posted in comment form here. Follows the movie very, very vaguely, although I guess you could say Arthur is Brooke Shields, um. Warnings for underage--the boys are sixteen here.
It wasn’t fair at all, the fact that Eames felt the need to be right all the time. Arthur remembered fondly the days when Eames would listen to him instead of frowning at every word Arthur said, head cocked to one side before replying simply, “I don’t like that.”
Nothing Arthur did these days was enough for Eames. He’d rigged their hut to catch rain water in the evenings, but Eames said it attracted too many bugs. When a particularly bad heat wave came, Eames refused to listen to Arthur about staying out of the sun, and he’d burned the back of his neck until it was red and raw.
And when Arthur suggested they search out the new herd of boar that had migrated to their side of the island, but Eames insisted on doing the hunting himself.
“You’re not strong enough,” Eames had said, mouth quirked into an infuriating smirk that made Arthur’s heart pound with rage. “I’m bigger than you, after all. You’ll only get hurt, or worse.”
The truth of the matter was that Eames had gotten quite bulky over the past several months. His shoulders had broadened considerably to match the thick muscles beginning to take shape in his upper arms, and Arthur had caught him more than once looking into the lagoon at himself as he flexed. Even his hands were wider now, and Arthur hated how small he felt next to Eames, though he’d managed to keep up with him where their height was concerned.
Arthur also hated how...unsettled he felt around Eames these days, when he wasn’t on the brink of punching him straight in the nose. It seemed as if there was a constant heat settled low in his belly that flared abruptly whenever Eames looked at him, or touched him in any way.
Several months ago Arthur had rolled over in the early morning hours to find Eames shirtless and fast asleep not two feet away from him. It hadn’t been anything out of the ordinary; they’d slept beside one another for years, since the days when they were children, alone and terrified of being apart from one another.
But on this morning, Arthur could not look away from the smooth lines of Eames’ back, the soft early morning light turning his tanned skin a warm caramel color. Eames had shifted in his sleep, his muscles ripping like a slow wave. He’d sighed deeply, and Arthur’s stomach had clenched in a sudden, overwhelming surge of heat. Everything below his waist felt tense, a strange eagerness Arthur could not define. He’d turned onto his stomach, pressed his hips down into the threadbare mattress salvaged from the wreck, and moaned at how good it felt. He did it again, and again, until he could barely breathe. A sharp terror grew in the back of his mind--what was this? What was happening to him? Was he sick? But no, nothing this good to be a sickness. Arthur buried his head in his arms, panting roughly, and a moment later, he shuddered and cried out, his body exploding with heat from the inside out. It was frightening and heady, and Arthur could do nothing but suck the air back into his lungs, wondering if he’d somehow died and been miraculously brought back to life.
He’d wondered if Eames had had anything to do with it. And in the days that followed, Arthur couldn’t stop thinking about that morning, and whenever he thought of Eames at the same time, the shivery spark of warmth grew in his belly.
Eames, however, grew more and more infuriating, until Arthur despised the way his body reacted to every little thing Eames did. Besides, it had become quite apparent that Eames was not having the same troubles as Arthur. If anything, Eames was starting to think of Arthur as a nuisance. A weak, childish nuisance, regardless of the fact that they had both recently turned sixteen (Arthur kept track of the days in his little notebook, knew they had been on this island for close to eight years).
“I’m plenty strong,” Arthur shot back. He straightened his shoulders--they may not have been as broad as Eames’, but he did have some muscles. Eames wasn’t the only one who did his share of physical labor.
Eames just sighed. “Not like me, you’re not. What if the boar pins you to the ground? You’ll be able to fight him off?”
“We’ll work together,” Arthur said through gritted teeth. It never used to be an issue; they had always been a team, as close as brothers. But the last year or so, things changed. Eames had changed. And Arthur hated it.
“I don’t think so,” Eames replied with a haughtiness that made Arthur see red. “We’re running low on wood, so maybe you should go and gather up some--”
“You don’t give me orders!” Arthur shoved at Eames’ chest, catching him off guard and sending him stumbling back several paces.
Eames blinked at him in shock. Then his eyes narrowed sharply. “Don’t touch me like that,” he said in a low voice.
“Then don’t treat me like a fucking child.” The curse startled then both; Arthur had never uttered the word out loud, although he remembered hearing his father use it on rare occasions.
“I’m older than you, I make the decisions!”
“You’re two months older than me, and I don’t have to do anything you say. You’re not my father.” He dropped his voice into a deep, menacing register, satisfied with the way it made Eames’ cheeks grow pink.
“You’ll get hurt!” Eames sputtered.
“I’m faster than you! I’m also smarter, in case you weren’t aware.” The latter part wasn’t exactly true--Eames was terribly clever, and he knew how to make Arthur laugh when he wanted to. But Arthur wanted to him to feel the same hurt that was welling up inside him, the same hurt that came from realizing your best friend no longer needed or wanted you.
Eames’ shoulders slumped. He winced as if struck, and Arthur instantly wanted to take the words back. “If you’re so brilliant, go kill the bloody thing yourself,” Eames said before stomping off into the forest.
“Fine, I will!” Arthur shouted after him. It wasn’t until Eames disappeared into the trees that he realized his hands were shaking.
Arthur did, in fact, spend the rest of the day collecting drift wood for their evening fire. It was mostly an excuse to walk alone on the beach and think about how much he hated Eames, how he’d give anything to be off this island and away from him. Eames was all Arthur had known for nearly half his life, and when he thought about it too much it overwhelmed him. Eames knew everything about Arthur, his secrets, his dreams, all of it.
At least he doesn’t know about my...condition, Arthur thought as he kicked at the sand. If only Eames knew what it was like to wake up in the morning aching and hot, feeling as if your skin is two sizes too small, and then to hold the feeling with you all day like a fever. Maybe then Eames would stop being so damn frustrating.
But as night fell, Eames didn’t return. Arthur made the fire like always, glancing over his shoulder every so often. They’d never fought like before, and Eames had certainly never taken off into the jungle alone for this long. Sometimes Eames was so--so stupid and pig-headed, and Arthur hated him. He hated him more than anything. If Eames wanted to stay gone, let him. Arthur didn’t care at all.
This didn’t explain the ache in Arthur’s chest as he sat curled up by the fire, wrapped in an old blanket that once belonged to Eames’ family. It smelled a bit like Eames, mostly because he slept with it on the colder nights. Sometimes Arthur would burrow under the blanket with him, pressed up along Eames’ back for warmth, and Eames would sigh quietly and tell Arthur stories in the dark about growing up in England as the son of a nobleman. Arthur would listen to Eames’ voice, a rolling comfort with a lilt to it that Arthur knew by heart, until eventually he’d fall asleep with his face tucked against Eames’ shoulder.
Arthur swallowed against the knot in his throat, pulling the blanket tighter around himself.
He woke the next morning to hand on his arm, and a familiar voice whispering his name.
Arthur jerked awake, blinking in the early morning light. His arm was stiff from having slept on it wrong; he’d fallen asleep beside the fire instead of going back into their hut. He looked up and found Eames kneeling beside him, his hair a mess, his shirt gone. Every inch of his skin was filthy, like he’d been rolling in mud.
He was also covered in ugly, bloodied scratches.
“What--what happened to you?” Arthur asked, voice rough with sleep. He swiped at his eyes, heart suddenly pounding too hard.
Eames bit his lip, looking down at himself as if noticing the mess for the first time. “Oh.” He glanced back up at Arthur and gave him a lopsided, sheepish grin. “I caught one. He put up a right fight, but I got him.”
“You killed a boar?”
“Yeah. He was massive. I’ll make you a feast fit for a king.”
You could have died. Arthur reached out, traced tentative fingers over the gashes on Eames’ chest and arms. “I don’t want a feast,” he whispered. “We’ll need to save the meat, anyway.” His mind was full of images of Eames lying broken and lifeless, his blood spilling out onto the jungle floor.
“There will be plenty of meat, believe me.” Eames watched the path of Arthur’s fingers, holding very still. He hissed when Arthur touched a fresh wound just above his heart.
“You’re filthy,” Arthur said. He didn’t know why it was so difficult to breathe. “Go wash yourself off before you get infected.” His mother had been a nurse, and Arthur had learned from a very young age that wounds and dirt did not mix.
Eames didn’t move right away. Instead, he pulled his lower lip into his mouth once more, worried it with his upper teeth. Arthur could not look away.
“Arthur, I--I should’ve let you come,” he said softly, sitting back on his heels as he rubbed his palms over his tattered, worn trousers. “But I didn’t--it’s all right if I get a few scratches, see, but you--it’s different.”
“Different?” Arthur asked. He had that same feeling again, of his skin being too tight, too warm.
Eames took a deep breath. “I just want to...to...” He looked down at his hands, shook his head, then swore. Arthur had never heard him say fuck before.
“Never mind,” Eames said, not meeting Arthur’s eyes. “I should get cleaned up. We’ll skin the boar later, yeah?”
“Sure.” Arthur didn’t know what else to say. He was shivering, but the morning air was quite humid.
He watched as Eames got to his feet and headed off in the direction of the lagoon nearby. The front of his trousers looked strange; instead of lying flat, there was an oddly-shaped bulge there, one that Eames tugged at awkwardly as he walked away.
Slowly, Arthur lifted back the blanket still wrapped around him. A similar bulge greeted him, pressing against the front of his own trousers. He splayed his hand over it, curled his fingers ever so slightly, and the instant rush of sensation made him gasp.
Arthur glanced back in the direction of the lagoon.
Maybe Eames knew more about his condition than Arthur originally thought.
Eames was quiet for the next several days, and Arthur wasn’t much better. There was a strange tension in the air between them; Arthur thought at first that maybe Eames was still angry at him for some reason, but it didn’t feel like anger. It didn’t feel like anything Arthur could properly put into words, and that frustrated him. Arthur had always liked being able to define the world around him into concrete terms.
They were also careful around each other, Eames especially. He seemed more conscious of touching Arthur, of being close to him. Sometimes Arthur would look up and find Eames watching him with his mouth twisted to one side, as if he somehow felt the same unnamed frustration that had been plaguing Arthur. It made him look unhappy, which in turn made Arthur’s stomach grow cold.
Whatever was happening, Arthur didn’t want Eames to be unhappy. The thought alone gave Arthur a rather startling desire to tuck Eames into his arms and whisper to him that everything would be all right. Eames had done the same for him for years now, it only seemed fitting that Arthur should return the favor.
In the end, that was how Arthur came to his decision to go hunting on his own--he would prove to Eames that he could fend for himself, that Eames didn’t need to worry so much about him. Arthur would show just how strong he was, even if he didn’t have Eames’ physical bulk.
He woke before dawn, turning over onto his side to find Eames’ hand stretched out toward him in sleep, his fingers just shy of touching Arthur’s shoulder. When they had fallen asleep the night before, Arthur distinctly remembered Eames lying down with his back to him, talking softly about a bird he’d seen that day until his voice faded off. He must have reached for Arthur in the middle of the night without even knowing it.
Arthur stared at the lovely broad hand, tanned knuckles and slack fingers, and for one terrifying moment, considered leaning over and kissing it. But that was such a strange thought to have; no one kissed hands, after all. Kissing was for mouths. At least, that was what Arthur’s sister had told him, many years ago before she, too, along with the rest of his family, was lost to the sea.
He sighed quietly before getting to his feet and heading to the lagoon. The ground was soft and moist there, and Arthur carefully and methodically applied the mud to his skin, hoping it would serve as camouflage as well protect him from the sun. He didn’t tan the way Eames did, much to Arthur’s dismay; Eames frequently liked to tease Arthur about his fair complexion, saying he was “lovely like a porcelain doll.”
They had two knives for hunting, but only one of them was large enough to kill a boar. It was a massive dagger with an ivory handle that had belonged to Eames’ father--”a gift from the Prince of Persia,” he’d told Arthur once. Arthur rarely used it, because it was one of the few things Eames still had from his family. He felt a guilty pang in his chest as he slipped the dagger from its leather pouch nestled amongst Eames’ clothes. He told himself he would return it by sunset, as good as new.
Arthur spared a glance over his shoulder before he left the hut. Eames was still dead to the world, his mouth slightly parted. He always appeared so young when he slept, his cheeks round and baby-soft, eyelashes too long to be a boy’s fanned out over the delicate skin below his eyes. His lips were very pink, very full, slick and shiny in the morning sunlight.
A jolt of heat tugged low in Arthur’s abdomen, spreading lower. He could feel the first signs of the now-familiar tightness growing there, a hardening of sorts. Arthur cupped himself, pressed the heel of his hand against the tension, and bit his lip as a soft moan nearly escaped him. He’d found over the past several days that if he rubbed himself for long enough, the tension would built, just like that morning in his bed, and explode suddenly into a heat that left behind a slickness that covered his penis. At first Arthur was humiliated, horrified that the sensations had caused him to wet himself. But upon inspection, he’d discovered that the wetness was something else entirely, something thick, pearly and translucent against his skin. He’d swiped his fingers through it, then licked them; the taste was salty, and somehow made Arthur shiver.
He didn’t understand how something so odd had come from his private parts--or his “cock,” as he’d heard his older brother Paul call it (Arthur, being all of nine years old at the time, had always blushed at the crude euphemisim). More than this, Arthur didn’t understand why the scent and taste and feel of the substance made his head swim and his skin grow hot all over again.
He’d been touching himself more and more since then, always careful to never let Eames catch on. God only knew what Eames would think if he did.
Arthur dropped his hand away from himself and turned back toward the jungle, leaving a sleeping Eames behind.
Arthur had been hunting before, but always with Eames in tow. They had been all of ten years old the first time they’d tracked a small deer, and ultimately it had been Eames who’d made the kill, shaking and nearly in tears by the time he’d slit the animal’s throat and had its blood all over his hands. Yet Arthur had managed to stay detached from it all; he was always the one to calm Eames down afterward, whispering to him as he cleaned the blood off that this was part of nature. Arthur had never been more thankful that his mother had given him Darwin to read as a boy--he understood the laws of nature better than Eames.
He didn’t have Eames’ knack for trailing, however, and within a few hours it became painfully obvious that Arthur was more than a little lost. He wasn’t used to wandering the jungle alone, and soon the trees began to look alike, tall and ominous and all but blotting out the sun. Nothing looked familiar to him anymore, and Arthur had yet to see a single boar.
He finally stopped in a clearing beside a small brook. It was quiet, the air cooler as he got closer to the water. Arthur toed his shoes off and dipped his bare feet into the softly rushing water, sighing contently for a moment. He’d never seen this place before, and he couldn’t help but think Eames would enjoy it.
As if responding to Arthur’s thoughts, the trees on the other side of the brook suddenly rustled. He heard a low growling sound, one that didn’t sound like that of a boar.
Arthur’s heart flew into his throat as he slowly reached for the dagger strapped to his hip. He didn’t move from the water, only crouched low and kept very still, thinking of his shoes sitting back on the bank. The growling grew louder, and wasn’t long before the source show itself to Arthur.
It was a black jungle cat. Arthur hadn’t seen one in ages; Eames had convinced him they had moved away because the nightly campfires frightened them. But this cat didn’t look frightened at all; it stared down Arthur with blazing green eyes, its teeth bared. All that separated them was a few feet of water.
Arthur could barely breathe. His palms grew sweaty, the dagger beginning to shake in his hand. He hadn’t accounted for this. He didn’t know what to do.
The cat crept into the water, its eyes never leaving Arthur’s. A terrifying silence enveloped them, as if the jungle was holding its breath, waiting to see what happened. Arthur felt like crying, but he wasn’t a child anymore. He no longer had that luxury.
He had no other choice but to grip the dagger with white-knuckle force and whisper to the jungle cat, “You don’t scare me.”
The cat’s tail lashed against the water, and it growled again, low and viscious.
Arthur closed his eyes, thought of Eames back at their hut, peaceful and asleep.
When he opened them again, the cat was crouched, ready to lunge and attack.
Arthur swallowed, looked the cat straight in the eye, and waited.
He heard Eames before he saw him--for a split second, Arthur thought he was dreaming. But he heard Eames’ voice screaming clear as day, “Arthur, no!,” too close to be anything but real. He blinked, turned his head, but the cat chose that moment to fling itself into the air at Arthur.
A burst of fire shot through the air over Arthur’s shoulder, colliding with the cat’s chest. The cat made an unholy sound of pain, lurching back to the bank as the fire fizzled into the water.
Arthur could do nothing but gasp in shock, staring in disbelief at the burnt torch now floating in the brook. He finally looked over his shoulder, and saw Eames standing behind him with another blazing torch in hand, glaring daggers at the wounded jungle cat.
“Get out of here,” Eames growled, “and don’t ever come back.” He wielded the fire at the cat, who winced and bared its teeth.
“Arthur, go get your shoes. Don’t make any sudden moves. I’ll take care of this.”
For once, Arthur didn’t argue with him. His knees wobbled slightly as he staggered back the the bank, unable to take his eyes away from the fierce, angry stance of Eames’ body, how every muscle stood out in stark relief. He knew instinctively that Eames was ready to fight, and it terrified him almost as much as it made an odd thrill shiver through his body.
For several long moments, the huge cat faced off with Eames, until Eames yelled, “Go!” and flung the torch across the water. It landed on the opposite blank with a flare of light and heat, and the cat screamed and ran, yowling as it disappeared into the jungle.
Arthur watched as the tension visibly left Eames’ shoulders, and in an instant he could finally see the real fear that Eames felt. Eames rubbed a hand across his face, then trudged through the water to where the fire still burned. He kicked it out quickly, then stood there with his head bowed and eyes closed.
“Eames,” Arthur called from across the brook. His voice broke on the end of his name.
Eames turned, looked at Arthur with wide, exhausted eyes, arms hugged around his chest.
There was no thought process to Arthur’s actions that followed. He didn’t put his shoes on, nor did he put the dagger back into its holster. He left everything on the blank and raced across the water to the other side, where Eames was watching him with a mixture of confusion and relief. Arthur was soaked from the waist down, but it didn’t stop him from grabbing Eames’ jaw with both hands and pulling him into a hard, messy kiss.
It was more like a desperate plea to share one another’s air; neither had kissed a person before, barely knew how to go about doing such a thing, and yet it felt completely natural when Arthur parted his lips and pushed his tongue against the seam of Eames’ mouth. Eames gasped, clung tightly to Arthur’s arms and let him inside, the tip of his own tongue slipping tentatively along Arthur’s teeth.
“Arthur,” he breathed roughly, “Arthur, why? Why did you do this?” Eames squeezed Arthur’s bicep, bit sharply at his lower lip, and Arthur could feel him shaking.
“I’m sorry, I only wanted--” Arthur pulled back to rest his forehead against Eames’. They were both panting. “I-I wanted to prove myself to you. To show you I wasn’t weak.”
“I’ve never thought you were weak, never.” Eames punctuated his words by sliding his hands up Arthur’s arms to cup his neck and pull him closer. “Bloody stupid fool, how could you ever think such a thing?”
Arthur shook his head. “The boar, you wouldn’t let me--”
“Because I was afraid something like this would happen. I can’t stand the thought of you--of losing--” He bit the word off with a savage kiss, their teeth colliding. Arthur whimpered, but opened his mouth wider, wanting to control the kiss and give into it all at once.
“I don’t want you to worry about me. I don’t want to be a nuisance to you,” Arthur gasped.
Eames groaned, suddenly jerking back. He framed Arthur’s jaw with his thumbs, fingertips laced at the base of Arthur’s skull. “You--you don’t even know,” Eames breathed, and suddenly that same pinched, unhappy look flared in his eyes. Arthur’s stomach dropped.
“I’m sorry,” Arthur whispered again.
“Damn it,” Eames said fiercely, “I’m not asking you to apologize, I only want--I want you to let me take care of you. That’s all. I want to protect you.” He buried his face against Arthur’s neck, which muffled his words. But Arthur heard every one; it made his chest grow tight, and a hot, liquid sensation pool deep inside him.
He suddenly wanted much, much closer to Eames, wanted every inch of his skin pressed against his. Arthur felt crazed for a moment, lost in the need to sink into Eames and never leave. His arms curled around Eames’ bare shoulders, fingertips splayed over smooth, sweat-slick muscle, and on instinct alone Arthur arched his body. The hardness he’d felt growing low around his cock rubbed up against the front of Eames’ trousers, and Eames shuddered in Arthur’s arms and groaned into his neck. He had a similar hardness, just like Arthur’s, and he jerked roughly when their groins met.
Arthur closed his eyes and gasped, “I want you to take care of me. I want this.” He didn’t quite understand what he was saying, but it was enough for Eames, who groaned again and slid his broad hands down Arthur’s sides, palming his hips tightly. He made a strange rolling motion with his own hips, and like a burst of flame, everything was awash with sensation and heat. Arthur clung to Eames, cried out softly when the feelings inside him became almost too much, and Eames answered him by kissing him, hard and wet, as if he needed Arthur’s breath to survive.
Somehow, they both sunk to their knees together, panting and moving against one another until Eames pushed Arthur onto his back and caged his body with his own. Arthur gazed up at him, at the breadth of his chest and shoulders, his powerful arms. But he felt--safe. Safe, and utterly cherished, especially when Eames ducked down to lick at Arthur’s mouth like a kitten savoring milk.
They shed their trousers, and it didn’t occur to Arthur until Eames was biting his lip as he stared down the length of their bodies that they were completely naked now. Arthur had seen Eames naked countless times, but never like this, with his skin tinged a lovely pink color and his, his cock rigid and curving up slightly toward his navel. Arthur’s mouth went wet, and he could not stop staring at it, how long it was, thick and slick at the head. Eames was solid, sinewy, perfect. Arthur could not imagine anyone more beautiful.
Eames breathed Arthur’s name, glancing up at him through his lashes. Arthur wet his lips and reached down to swipe his fingers over the top of Eames’ cock.
“Oh,” Eames gasped, eyes fluttering closed. “Oh.”
Arthur grew braver, flexed his hand as he took both Eames and his own cock into his hand. He didn’t know what he was doing at all, but his body knew what it wanted, and the instant their slick, hot flesh slid together, they both cried out, shaking, Eames’ face twisted as if in pain.
“Are you hurt?” Arthur gasped.
“God, no, don’t--don’t stop, please.” Eames thrust his hips a bit, pushing himself into Arthur’s fist, and the rush of heat began to bloom deep in Arthur’s stomach.
“Eames,” he moaned, and he was not alone when the wetness covered his hand. Eames’s voice broke on another high-pitched cry, and his cock spasmed in Arthur’s grip. There was more slickness, and strangely Arthur felt pleased.
He wiped his hand on the ground as Eames lowered himself on top of Arthur, kissing him slow and languidly. Arthur hissed softly--he was still tender, overstimulated, but not enough to make Eames stop. He let Eames kiss him as their hands made careful explorations of their bodies, learning one another for the first time.
“We should go back,” Eames whispered, pushing his nose gently against Arthur’s.
Arthur smiled sleepily, suddenly craving a nap. “In a minute,” he said. “We’re not in any rush. You’ve chased off all the danger, after all.”
Eames grinned and snuggled closer, one arm thrown across Arthur’s chest. “You’ll always be safe with me,” he murmured against Arthur’s cheek.
“I know,” Arthur said, and turned his head to kiss him.
end. ♥