#348 - [FIC] Thick As Thieves (Yusuf/Eames), 2/?
Title: Thick as Thieves (2/?)
Word Count: 3,900/?
Pairing: Yusuf/Eames
Rating: PG-13/R-ish for non-graphic depictions/mentions of masturbation
Summary: Yusuf smiled absently to himself as he unfolded the note, which read simply, “Come in… I’m in the shower.”
Disclaimer: Not mine. Would that they were!
Author's Note: intended this to be a sort of prequel to The Taste of Milk and Sugar. It isn’t necessary to have read the one to understand the other, however.
Yusuf booked it to his next block, eschewing the traditional pathways in favor of cutting across the lawn. A straight line was the shortest distance between two points, was it not? He managed to sneak in under the radar, thank his stars. His arrival earned him a disapproving glance but nothing more. Evan, his tablemate, looked up as he sat down.
“Burning the midnight oil, were you?”
“Studying, yes,” Yusuf agreed readily as he pulled the previous night’s homework from his bag and smoothed the wrinkles from the paper.
“Swot,” Evan said, good-naturedly. “Hey, did you get the fourth line? Never seen, what’s it, lasarpiciferis?”
“Silphium-bearing, modifying Cyrenis.”
“Brilliant!” He paused, pencil poised over his paper. “Now what the bloody fuck is silphium?”
“Did you not read the commentary Laurence assigned? The Romans used it as a contraceptive. I don’t believe it still grows anywhere.”
“You know I never read that rubbish, mate.”
“Perhaps you should.”
Evan smiled cheekily. “No need when I’ve got you, is there?”
Yusuf rolled his eyes in reply as class began properly and copies of Catullus 2 were circulated around the room. A sense of trepidation washed over him. It was an excellent poem, to be sure, but arguably more… explicit than carmina 5 and 7. There were a couple of lines that would be problematic to translate with delicacy.
Actually, the entirety of carmen 2 was problematic.
Professor Laurence surveyed them silently, his eyes coming to rest on Yusuf. “Ah, yes. Mr. Rangarajan. Would you be so kind as to read carmen two for us?”
Yusuf wet his lips and then began to read. He loved the feel of the words in his mouth, so brisk and cadenced, the hendecasyllabic rhythm resounding with all the precision of a march. Latin was nothing if not utilitarian, but there was a beauty to it all the same.
Not to mention the rather strong thread of eroticism in this particular carmen.
“Thank you, Mr. Rangarajan, for that lovely reading.” Laurence favored him with a rare smile. “Now,” he said, continuing in a crisp, business-like fashion, “could you summarize what you have just read?”
“Catullus is lamenting Lesbia’s preoccupation with her sparrow, rather than with himself, sir. His words suggest a great deal of frustration.”
Laurence seemed satisfied enough with this response and turned smoothly on his heel. “Mr. Archer, what is the significance of the sparrow in this poem?”
“It’s Lesbia’s pet, sir.”
“We’re well aware of that, Mr. Archer. If you could perhaps give us something more substantial?”
“I… I don’t know, sir,” he admitted.
“You would know, Mr. Archer, if you had read the commentary I assigned, that sparrows were often given as a token of affection to one’s beloved,” Laurence said, his lips tight with disapproval. “This particular sparrow is, as Catullus’ jealousy suggests, likely a gift from Lesbia’s husband, rather than the poet himself. Possible interpretations?”
His question was met by a chorus of throat-clearing and paper shuffling. Laurence sighed.
“Mr. Rangarajan, what might Lesbia’s sparrow represent?”
Yusuf hoped, silently, that the earth might open up and swallow him whole, but it seemed the stars were no longer aligned in his favor. Laurence looked at him expectantly, and he had no choice but to begin.
“Catullus calls Lesbia’s sparrow deliciae, from delectare, to delight. Like ludere, to play, in line 9, delectare often occurs with as a double entendre in Catullus, suggesting certain… pleasures of the flesh,” Yusuf finished awkwardly, painfully aware of the muffled laughter his response was eliciting. “Modern scholarship suggests that the sparrow is a, ah,” he hesitated, addressing his final words to the smooth wood of his desk, “phallic symbol.”
Perhaps he should have stayed with Eames after all. Yusuf met Laurence’s eyes tentatively, preparing himself for the worst. But the man only nodded. If possible, Laurence was redder than he was.
“Very astute of you, Mr. Rangarajan. I admit that I was not expecting quite that level of analysis, but those elements are certainly present, yes. Very good. Moving on, now…”
The rest of the period did not present him with any further opportunities to make a fool of himself, a fact for which Yusuf was most grateful. Laurence, no doubt fearing a similarly uncomfortable reception of Catullus 3, the companion piece to carmen 2, left them with the instruction to prepare Catullus 101 for Monday.
Evan jostled Yusuf with his elbow on their way out. “Phallic symbols, eh?”
“Ha bloody ha.”
- - - - -
After returning to his own dormitory to relieve himself of his books and change into something more comfortable than the stiff trousers and Oxford shirt that were, thankfully, the only mandatory uniform attire-he very much doubted his ability to endure wearing a tie for more than five minutes-Yusuf had a quick bite in the dining hall and then headed to Eames’ dormitory, not certain that the other boy would be there or even if his presence would be appropriate, but too anxious to do otherwise, etiquette be damned.
There was no one to question his presence as he went up, surprised to find a note tacked on Eames’ door bearing what he could only assume was meant to be his name, though it had far too many f’s and s’s and an indecent number of vowels, two of which appeared nowhere in his name. Yusuf smiled absently to himself as he unfolded the note, which read simply, “Come in… I’m in the shower.”
Yusuf read and re-read the text as he closed the door behind him and took a seat on the bed. “Come in… I’m in the shower.” He flushed. It wasn’t such a blatant come on as the reverse (I’m in the shower… come in) might have been, but neither was it an invitation given in perfect innocence. Come in. I’m in the shower. Two periods, precise and utilitarian-that would have been an innocent message. A statement of fact. But with an ellipsis…Yusuf could not imagine that Eames had been entirely unaware of the effect that the punctuation would have on him, those three periods resounding with promise.
Eames may as well have invited Yusuf in with him.
Yusuf shifted uncomfortably atop Eames’ duvet. He could hear the sound of running water, the spray of the shower muffled but nonetheless audible through the wall. It occurred to him to wonder how Eames knew when he would return (and also why he couldn’t have showered during Yusuf’s rather protracted absence) but the logical capacity of his brain was somewhat overwhelmed by the knowledge that Eames was, at this very moment in time, less than fifteen feet away, naked.
And wet.
Before he realized what he was doing, Yusuf had already toed off his shoes and lain back against the pillows. Reading Catullus, though he was fully prepared to take this fact to the grave, had left him rather hot and bothered and the delightful image of Eames that his mind was currently projecting did nothing to ease his present state. He gave the door a surreptitious glance, but the sound of the shower continued and Yusuf let his eyes drift shut, slipping a hand beneath the hem of his shirt to rub at his nipples, already hardening into stiff peaks with the combination of guilt and excitement he felt lying there in Eames’ bed and wanting to run his hands over the fine, pale expanse of the other boy’s chest.
It was entirely possible that Eames was shaving or washing his hair or doing any number of mundane things but with arousal coiling languorously in his belly, Yusuf was inclined to picture Eames with one hand braced against the wall of the shower as the water beat down on him, that generous mouth slack with pleasure, engaged in a far more intriguing pastime. Yusuf’s tongue darted out to lick his lips as he began to rub himself through the fabric of his trousers, too impatient to bother taking himself out. Desire sang in his veins, his sense of touch heightened to the point where just the press of his palm seemed excruciatingly pleasurable as his hand sped up and he choked back his moans, only dimly aware of the metallic taste on his lips. Yusuf was close, his back trembling and taut as a bowstring as he arched up off the bed in that quiet-wait.
All at once, Yusuf realized that he could no longer hear the sound of the shower and there was hardly time enough to rip his hand away from the tent in his trousers and scramble into an upright position before he heard the click of the doorknob. Yusuf was in the process of desperately attempting to will himself into quiescence when Eames emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, a glimpse into Yusuf’s own personal hell with nothing but a towel slung low around his hips, skin glistening with moisture and flushed from the heat of his shower, and his efforts slipped through his fingers like so much sand.
Eames gestured. “Your specs are crooked, mate.”
“Your spelling is dreadful.”
“Well, you’re awfully defensive all of a sudden.” His lips twitched like he was holding back a smile. “I hope you didn’t come round just to tell me that.”
Yusuf averted his eyes. “I refuse to speak to you until you dress yourself properly.”
With a laugh, Eames disappeared back into the bathroom with what was hopefully a pair of trousers. Yusuf buried his face in his hands, groaning and curling his body down over the tent that was still jauntily pitched in his trousers. How his body managed to produce an overall flush and still have enough blood left to humiliate him, Yusuf didn’t know, but it was a most infuriating conundrum. One he did not at all care to study in further detail.
Eames returned, hair mussed but no longer dripping. He’d even had the courtesy to put on a t-shirt along with his jeans.
“Better?”
“Yes, thank you,” Yusuf said. He smiled despite his discomfort, helpless to do otherwise as Eames sat next to him. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
Eames’ lips brushed his cheek. “That’s all right. Come on, we’ll curl up on the bed.”
They lay back against the pillows, Eames facing him. Their legs tangled together casually and Yusuf started to relax, the chaos of adrenaline and arousal giving way to that comfortable familiarity he felt whenever they were together.
“Did I keep you waiting?”
“I managed to occupy myself,” Yusuf said vaguely. It was a fight not to confess to his inappropriate conduct. “But your note was a horrible tease.”
Eames laughed. “You could’ve joined me, if it bothered you so badly.”
“I fear very deeply for my immortal soul when I’m with you.”
“I’d be more concerned with your earthly virtue, personally.”
Yusuf inclined his head. “That as well.”
Eames reached out to tuck a stray curl behind his ear. “What would it take to make you trust me?”
“Tell me something true.”
After a moment, Eames said, “I’m deathly allergic to peanut butter.” Yusuf laughed and Eames raised his eyebrows. “Allergies are no laughing matter, Yusuf. So I’d advise you to watch what you eat before you snog me, unless you fancy the idea of jamming an EpiPen into my thigh, which is not nearly as exciting as it sounds. If it ever comes to that,” he added, expression thoughtful, “I keep one in the front zip of my bag.”
“I promise to be very careful,” Yusuf assured him.
“Your turn,” Eames said.
Yusuf found himself smiling. “I didn’t realize this was a game.”
“Come on, it’ll be fun.”
“When I’m away, I miss my cats.”
“I miss my dog,” Eames returned. He smiled. “But it’s not so bad when I’m with you.”
“That was two things.”
“Then you’ll just have to tell me two things, too, won’t you?”
Yusuf took a moment to decide. “I can’t stand the taste of chocolate or coffee, but I love the smell.”
“Hardy and Forster are two of my favorite English novelists.”
“I cried while reading Maurice.”
“So did I,” Eames admitted.
Yusuf leaned in to kiss him, more conscious of his glasses this time around. Their lips melted softly together for one sweet moment, Eames’ hand reaching up to cradle the base of his skull. He drew back, burying his face in Eames’ shoulder and mumbling, “I tried to toss off while you were in the shower.”
As humiliating as it was to admit, he felt a bit of weight disappear from his shoulders with the confession.
Eames laughed against his ear. “Tried?”
“You walked out of the bathroom,” Yusuf said miserably.
“I take it that’s why you looked so flushed,” Eames commented. After a moment he said, “Do you need the loo, then?”
Yusuf raised his head from Eames’ shoulder, horrified. “I am not going to, to masturbate in your bathroom.”
“Don’t see why not. You were perfectly happy to do it in my bed,” Eames reminded him. “Not that I mind, love, but you’ve got to admit that it’s a funny place to start drawing lines in the sand.”
It was an excellent point, Yusuf had to concede. Tacitly.
“Anyway,” Eames continued, “‘s not like I can really fault you for it. I couldn’t even bring myself to take my trousers off after you left this morning. You know how bloody embarrassing that is? And I had it off in the shower.”
Yusuf propped himself up on his elbow, smiling. “Tell me something else.”
“About my wank?”
“No, you prat,” Yusuf laughed. “Something else that is true.”
“I promise I won’t lie about the size of my-” Yusuf clapped a hand over Eames’ mouth to stifle the remainder of his promise.
He held it there for a moment, eyes narrowed in warning. “Will you behave?”
“Mmm,” Eames mumbled against his palm. Yusuf took that as a ‘yes’ and removed his hand. Eames pouted. “I wasn’t aware there were rules to this game.”
“There is such a thing as common sense, Eames.”
“And it’s entirely too uncommon, I agree. When I was a kid, I was afraid of the dark. I still check for monsters under the bed,” he said with a sheepish smile. “Old habits and all that.”
“When I was little, my mother read Alice in Wonderland to me and ever since, I have had these dreams of falling forever.
There was a pause before Eames spoke. “I don’t dream.”
“Surely you must-”
“If I do, I don’t remember it. Sometimes I worry I’ll just fall asleep and never wake up,” Eames said. “I get insomnia, sometimes. From the stress of it.”
Yusuf regarded him silently for a long moment, conflicted. He was unsure of what to say, but it seemed so callous to say nothing at all. He grasped Eames’ hand again, lacing their fingers together as they lay there. His palm was a little clammy, but Yusuf didn’t mind. He didn’t want to let go.
“Would you like me to stay?”
“You don’t have to.”
“I will if you want me to.”
“You don’t have any more class tonight?”
“I do not.”
Eames squeezed his hand and smiled. “All right, then. You should probably take off your specs, as much as I like them.”
Yusuf did, letting Eames set them aside for him again. His fingers came up to tangle in Yusuf’s curls and he wasn’t certain who leaned in, but suddenly they were kissing. Eames’ lips were dry this time, not sticky with syrup or salve, and the feeling of real contact, of skin on skin, sparked heat low in his belly. Yusuf was quick to part his lips, eager for the feel of Eames’ tongue curling against his own, for the taste of his mouth and the deep pressure of his lips.
Eames’ hand unthreaded itself from his hair and made the slow descent down his shoulders and the curve of his back, finally finding its way beneath his shirt to run the length of his spine and over his side. Yusuf took the opportunity to do the same, a contented sigh falling from his lips as his hands at last came in contact with the warm expanse of skin that was Eames’ back, all hard muscle and velvet under his fingertips.
It was such a simple touch, only Eames’ hand on his side, their mouths fitted together snugly, but Yusuf felt the effects of it all over his body like the systematic workings of some localized poison, as sweet as it was deadly. Yusuf was drowning in it, soft mouths and hard hands, and he never wanted to come up for air. In that moment, he would have gladly traded any of several daily needs for a few more minutes to spend exploring the contours of Eames’ mouth.
Eventually, they had to resurface. Yusuf’s head lolled onto Eames’ shoulder the both of them breathing heavily, their hands still clutching at bare, slick skin. Yusuf turned his face into Eames’ neck and kissed the skin there under his jaw, feeling the other boy’s pulse flutter under his lips as he caught his breath.
Eames laughed softly in his ear. “Change your mind about that offer yet?”
Yusuf was prepared to ask Eames to which offer he was referring when it dawned on him, difficult to ignore when his trousers felt punishingly tight and his head swum with the most delicious sort of dizziness. He could feel the hot press of Eames’ at his hip.
“You know, to use the-”
“Yes,” Yusuf said. “That would be best, I think.”
“Unless you’d rather the bed.”
Yusuf extracted himself from their embrace with a snort. “You may have it.”
“Ta, love,” Eames said, sounding more than a little breathless. He was already flicking open his jeans, t-shirt riding up over his stomach. He fingered the zip of his trousers and smiled cheekily. “You can watch if you like.”
“Libertine,” Yusuf accused. He didn’t linger, ducking into the bathroom lest he give in to temptation.
Having already been brought to the edge once that evening, Yusuf harbored no illusions that he would last. Conscious of making a mess, he positioned himself over the sink. It was clumsy and frantic and he was off in thirty seconds flat, but quick as it was, his knees buckled with the sheer force of it. Yusuf braced his hands on either side of the sink, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against the cool surface of the mirror, each pant that escaped from his lips fogging little clouds on the silvered glass.
When he felt he could stand on his own again, Yusuf washed his hands and tucked himself back into his pants. He listened at the door but heard nothing. Cautiously, he opened it and caught Eames wiping at his stomach with a wad of tissue, his t-shirt on the floor.
“Forgive me, I assumed-”
Eames waved away his apology. “You’re fine.”
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and wriggled out of his jeans-no mean feat-and Yusuf was hopeless not to look on appreciatively. Eames’ legs were solid and toned, his calves shapely and covered in sandy hair. His thighs, attractively curved, disappeared into rather festive boxer briefs patterned in red, gold, and blue paisley.
He settled back on the bed. “Get as naked as you like.”
Yusuf needed a moment to gather his wits. “Pardon?”
“Undress,” Eames said slowly. “For bed, yeah?”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Yes, of course.”
Though it was difficult not to feel a slight stirring of self-consciousness when he had never been so naked in front of another boy, Yusuf found it rather flattering the way Eames’ eyes stayed on him as he kicked off his own trousers. After a moment of hesitation, Yusuf removed his shirt as well before climbing into bed with Eames. The boy’s arms encircled him immediately, his head bowed to kiss Yusuf’s shoulder. Their legs tangled together, and Yusuf smiled at the feeling of Eames’ calves rubbing his. He naturally had little body hair and the downy hair on Eames’ legs felt pleasant and soft against his skin.
“You’re so warm,” Eames murmured, after they had been lying there awhile. “Do you mind that side of the bed?”
“Not at all. But I am not so sure that I can sleep facing you,” he admitted. He offered an apologetic smile.
“That’s all right.” They untangled their respective limbs and Eames said, “So, do you want to be the big spoon or the little spoon?”
Yusuf laughed. “What are you talking about?”
“Me at your back or you at mine. Which would you like?”
“The first, I suppose.”
Eames was gleeful. “The little spoon, then.”
Yusuf turned onto his other side with a snort. “Must you make everything sound so degenerate?”
“I really must, darling.”
Eames wound an arm around his midsection, his knees tucked up under Yusuf’s. Suddenly the big spoon/little spoon metaphor made far more sense. He smiled, enjoying the warm, solid feel of Eames’ chest against his back. His forehead rested between Yusuf’s shoulder blades, his breathing soft.
“’s weekend tomorrow,” Eames murmured. “Got any plans?”
“I may work in the lab tomorrow, but I have nothing obligatory.”
“My dad’s coming up for a visit.”
“I take it you are not altogether pleased with this.”
“He’ll be wanting to know if I’ve come to my senses yet. Decided to give birds a go.”
“What do you intend to tell him?”
Eames snorted. “With any luck? To bugger off.” After a moment, he exhaled heavily. “I suspect I’ll make it up like I always do and tell him some beautiful girl’s been writing me love-letters.”
“And do you expect him to fall for your deceit so easily?”
“He will when I show him the letters. Relax, love,” he laughed when Yusuf stiffened in his hold. “They’re forgeries.”
“A specialty of yours?”
“Don’t tell me you aren’t impressed.”
“I had no intention of doing so.”
They lapsed into silence for a while. His eyelids were growing heavy, weighted down by a pleasant languor, though it was not late in the evening. He was drifting close to sleep when he heard Eames say his name. Yusuf shifted in his arms and mumbled sleepily in response.
“It’s not that I don’t want to tell him about this. About you,” Eames said. Yusuf only listened, waiting for Eames to continue. “I just, I dunno, I just don’t want to deal with his shit. He wouldn’t understand.” There was a long pause before he spoke again. “Sometimes I feel like he doesn’t even try. You know it’s nothing to do with shame, right, Yusuf?”
It was a troubling admission and Yusuf took a moment before speaking, laying his hand over Eames’ in the interim. “I won’t make trouble for you. There’s no need to say anything.”
“You won’t hate me for it?”
“Of course not.”
“You’re sure, then?”
“Secrets are a necessary evil at times.”
Eames kissed his shoulder-in thanks, Yusuf supposed. It felt oddly repentant. “Don’t worry if you need to get up for anything,” Eames told him. “I’m a heavy sleeper. And if the snoring bothers you terribly, just give me a good jab in the ribs, yeah?”
“If you insist.”
Yusuf closed his eyes. After that, there was nothing but the gentle embrace of dreamless sleep.
Part 3
Word Count: 3,900/?
Pairing: Yusuf/Eames
Rating: PG-13/R-ish for non-graphic depictions/mentions of masturbation
Summary: Yusuf smiled absently to himself as he unfolded the note, which read simply, “Come in… I’m in the shower.”
Disclaimer: Not mine. Would that they were!
Author's Note: intended this to be a sort of prequel to The Taste of Milk and Sugar. It isn’t necessary to have read the one to understand the other, however.
Yusuf booked it to his next block, eschewing the traditional pathways in favor of cutting across the lawn. A straight line was the shortest distance between two points, was it not? He managed to sneak in under the radar, thank his stars. His arrival earned him a disapproving glance but nothing more. Evan, his tablemate, looked up as he sat down.
“Burning the midnight oil, were you?”
“Studying, yes,” Yusuf agreed readily as he pulled the previous night’s homework from his bag and smoothed the wrinkles from the paper.
“Swot,” Evan said, good-naturedly. “Hey, did you get the fourth line? Never seen, what’s it, lasarpiciferis?”
“Silphium-bearing, modifying Cyrenis.”
“Brilliant!” He paused, pencil poised over his paper. “Now what the bloody fuck is silphium?”
“Did you not read the commentary Laurence assigned? The Romans used it as a contraceptive. I don’t believe it still grows anywhere.”
“You know I never read that rubbish, mate.”
“Perhaps you should.”
Evan smiled cheekily. “No need when I’ve got you, is there?”
Yusuf rolled his eyes in reply as class began properly and copies of Catullus 2 were circulated around the room. A sense of trepidation washed over him. It was an excellent poem, to be sure, but arguably more… explicit than carmina 5 and 7. There were a couple of lines that would be problematic to translate with delicacy.
Actually, the entirety of carmen 2 was problematic.
Professor Laurence surveyed them silently, his eyes coming to rest on Yusuf. “Ah, yes. Mr. Rangarajan. Would you be so kind as to read carmen two for us?”
Yusuf wet his lips and then began to read. He loved the feel of the words in his mouth, so brisk and cadenced, the hendecasyllabic rhythm resounding with all the precision of a march. Latin was nothing if not utilitarian, but there was a beauty to it all the same.
Not to mention the rather strong thread of eroticism in this particular carmen.
“Thank you, Mr. Rangarajan, for that lovely reading.” Laurence favored him with a rare smile. “Now,” he said, continuing in a crisp, business-like fashion, “could you summarize what you have just read?”
“Catullus is lamenting Lesbia’s preoccupation with her sparrow, rather than with himself, sir. His words suggest a great deal of frustration.”
Laurence seemed satisfied enough with this response and turned smoothly on his heel. “Mr. Archer, what is the significance of the sparrow in this poem?”
“It’s Lesbia’s pet, sir.”
“We’re well aware of that, Mr. Archer. If you could perhaps give us something more substantial?”
“I… I don’t know, sir,” he admitted.
“You would know, Mr. Archer, if you had read the commentary I assigned, that sparrows were often given as a token of affection to one’s beloved,” Laurence said, his lips tight with disapproval. “This particular sparrow is, as Catullus’ jealousy suggests, likely a gift from Lesbia’s husband, rather than the poet himself. Possible interpretations?”
His question was met by a chorus of throat-clearing and paper shuffling. Laurence sighed.
“Mr. Rangarajan, what might Lesbia’s sparrow represent?”
Yusuf hoped, silently, that the earth might open up and swallow him whole, but it seemed the stars were no longer aligned in his favor. Laurence looked at him expectantly, and he had no choice but to begin.
“Catullus calls Lesbia’s sparrow deliciae, from delectare, to delight. Like ludere, to play, in line 9, delectare often occurs with as a double entendre in Catullus, suggesting certain… pleasures of the flesh,” Yusuf finished awkwardly, painfully aware of the muffled laughter his response was eliciting. “Modern scholarship suggests that the sparrow is a, ah,” he hesitated, addressing his final words to the smooth wood of his desk, “phallic symbol.”
Perhaps he should have stayed with Eames after all. Yusuf met Laurence’s eyes tentatively, preparing himself for the worst. But the man only nodded. If possible, Laurence was redder than he was.
“Very astute of you, Mr. Rangarajan. I admit that I was not expecting quite that level of analysis, but those elements are certainly present, yes. Very good. Moving on, now…”
The rest of the period did not present him with any further opportunities to make a fool of himself, a fact for which Yusuf was most grateful. Laurence, no doubt fearing a similarly uncomfortable reception of Catullus 3, the companion piece to carmen 2, left them with the instruction to prepare Catullus 101 for Monday.
Evan jostled Yusuf with his elbow on their way out. “Phallic symbols, eh?”
“Ha bloody ha.”
- - - - -
After returning to his own dormitory to relieve himself of his books and change into something more comfortable than the stiff trousers and Oxford shirt that were, thankfully, the only mandatory uniform attire-he very much doubted his ability to endure wearing a tie for more than five minutes-Yusuf had a quick bite in the dining hall and then headed to Eames’ dormitory, not certain that the other boy would be there or even if his presence would be appropriate, but too anxious to do otherwise, etiquette be damned.
There was no one to question his presence as he went up, surprised to find a note tacked on Eames’ door bearing what he could only assume was meant to be his name, though it had far too many f’s and s’s and an indecent number of vowels, two of which appeared nowhere in his name. Yusuf smiled absently to himself as he unfolded the note, which read simply, “Come in… I’m in the shower.”
Yusuf read and re-read the text as he closed the door behind him and took a seat on the bed. “Come in… I’m in the shower.” He flushed. It wasn’t such a blatant come on as the reverse (I’m in the shower… come in) might have been, but neither was it an invitation given in perfect innocence. Come in. I’m in the shower. Two periods, precise and utilitarian-that would have been an innocent message. A statement of fact. But with an ellipsis…Yusuf could not imagine that Eames had been entirely unaware of the effect that the punctuation would have on him, those three periods resounding with promise.
Eames may as well have invited Yusuf in with him.
Yusuf shifted uncomfortably atop Eames’ duvet. He could hear the sound of running water, the spray of the shower muffled but nonetheless audible through the wall. It occurred to him to wonder how Eames knew when he would return (and also why he couldn’t have showered during Yusuf’s rather protracted absence) but the logical capacity of his brain was somewhat overwhelmed by the knowledge that Eames was, at this very moment in time, less than fifteen feet away, naked.
And wet.
Before he realized what he was doing, Yusuf had already toed off his shoes and lain back against the pillows. Reading Catullus, though he was fully prepared to take this fact to the grave, had left him rather hot and bothered and the delightful image of Eames that his mind was currently projecting did nothing to ease his present state. He gave the door a surreptitious glance, but the sound of the shower continued and Yusuf let his eyes drift shut, slipping a hand beneath the hem of his shirt to rub at his nipples, already hardening into stiff peaks with the combination of guilt and excitement he felt lying there in Eames’ bed and wanting to run his hands over the fine, pale expanse of the other boy’s chest.
It was entirely possible that Eames was shaving or washing his hair or doing any number of mundane things but with arousal coiling languorously in his belly, Yusuf was inclined to picture Eames with one hand braced against the wall of the shower as the water beat down on him, that generous mouth slack with pleasure, engaged in a far more intriguing pastime. Yusuf’s tongue darted out to lick his lips as he began to rub himself through the fabric of his trousers, too impatient to bother taking himself out. Desire sang in his veins, his sense of touch heightened to the point where just the press of his palm seemed excruciatingly pleasurable as his hand sped up and he choked back his moans, only dimly aware of the metallic taste on his lips. Yusuf was close, his back trembling and taut as a bowstring as he arched up off the bed in that quiet-wait.
All at once, Yusuf realized that he could no longer hear the sound of the shower and there was hardly time enough to rip his hand away from the tent in his trousers and scramble into an upright position before he heard the click of the doorknob. Yusuf was in the process of desperately attempting to will himself into quiescence when Eames emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, a glimpse into Yusuf’s own personal hell with nothing but a towel slung low around his hips, skin glistening with moisture and flushed from the heat of his shower, and his efforts slipped through his fingers like so much sand.
Eames gestured. “Your specs are crooked, mate.”
“Your spelling is dreadful.”
“Well, you’re awfully defensive all of a sudden.” His lips twitched like he was holding back a smile. “I hope you didn’t come round just to tell me that.”
Yusuf averted his eyes. “I refuse to speak to you until you dress yourself properly.”
With a laugh, Eames disappeared back into the bathroom with what was hopefully a pair of trousers. Yusuf buried his face in his hands, groaning and curling his body down over the tent that was still jauntily pitched in his trousers. How his body managed to produce an overall flush and still have enough blood left to humiliate him, Yusuf didn’t know, but it was a most infuriating conundrum. One he did not at all care to study in further detail.
Eames returned, hair mussed but no longer dripping. He’d even had the courtesy to put on a t-shirt along with his jeans.
“Better?”
“Yes, thank you,” Yusuf said. He smiled despite his discomfort, helpless to do otherwise as Eames sat next to him. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
Eames’ lips brushed his cheek. “That’s all right. Come on, we’ll curl up on the bed.”
They lay back against the pillows, Eames facing him. Their legs tangled together casually and Yusuf started to relax, the chaos of adrenaline and arousal giving way to that comfortable familiarity he felt whenever they were together.
“Did I keep you waiting?”
“I managed to occupy myself,” Yusuf said vaguely. It was a fight not to confess to his inappropriate conduct. “But your note was a horrible tease.”
Eames laughed. “You could’ve joined me, if it bothered you so badly.”
“I fear very deeply for my immortal soul when I’m with you.”
“I’d be more concerned with your earthly virtue, personally.”
Yusuf inclined his head. “That as well.”
Eames reached out to tuck a stray curl behind his ear. “What would it take to make you trust me?”
“Tell me something true.”
After a moment, Eames said, “I’m deathly allergic to peanut butter.” Yusuf laughed and Eames raised his eyebrows. “Allergies are no laughing matter, Yusuf. So I’d advise you to watch what you eat before you snog me, unless you fancy the idea of jamming an EpiPen into my thigh, which is not nearly as exciting as it sounds. If it ever comes to that,” he added, expression thoughtful, “I keep one in the front zip of my bag.”
“I promise to be very careful,” Yusuf assured him.
“Your turn,” Eames said.
Yusuf found himself smiling. “I didn’t realize this was a game.”
“Come on, it’ll be fun.”
“When I’m away, I miss my cats.”
“I miss my dog,” Eames returned. He smiled. “But it’s not so bad when I’m with you.”
“That was two things.”
“Then you’ll just have to tell me two things, too, won’t you?”
Yusuf took a moment to decide. “I can’t stand the taste of chocolate or coffee, but I love the smell.”
“Hardy and Forster are two of my favorite English novelists.”
“I cried while reading Maurice.”
“So did I,” Eames admitted.
Yusuf leaned in to kiss him, more conscious of his glasses this time around. Their lips melted softly together for one sweet moment, Eames’ hand reaching up to cradle the base of his skull. He drew back, burying his face in Eames’ shoulder and mumbling, “I tried to toss off while you were in the shower.”
As humiliating as it was to admit, he felt a bit of weight disappear from his shoulders with the confession.
Eames laughed against his ear. “Tried?”
“You walked out of the bathroom,” Yusuf said miserably.
“I take it that’s why you looked so flushed,” Eames commented. After a moment he said, “Do you need the loo, then?”
Yusuf raised his head from Eames’ shoulder, horrified. “I am not going to, to masturbate in your bathroom.”
“Don’t see why not. You were perfectly happy to do it in my bed,” Eames reminded him. “Not that I mind, love, but you’ve got to admit that it’s a funny place to start drawing lines in the sand.”
It was an excellent point, Yusuf had to concede. Tacitly.
“Anyway,” Eames continued, “‘s not like I can really fault you for it. I couldn’t even bring myself to take my trousers off after you left this morning. You know how bloody embarrassing that is? And I had it off in the shower.”
Yusuf propped himself up on his elbow, smiling. “Tell me something else.”
“About my wank?”
“No, you prat,” Yusuf laughed. “Something else that is true.”
“I promise I won’t lie about the size of my-” Yusuf clapped a hand over Eames’ mouth to stifle the remainder of his promise.
He held it there for a moment, eyes narrowed in warning. “Will you behave?”
“Mmm,” Eames mumbled against his palm. Yusuf took that as a ‘yes’ and removed his hand. Eames pouted. “I wasn’t aware there were rules to this game.”
“There is such a thing as common sense, Eames.”
“And it’s entirely too uncommon, I agree. When I was a kid, I was afraid of the dark. I still check for monsters under the bed,” he said with a sheepish smile. “Old habits and all that.”
“When I was little, my mother read Alice in Wonderland to me and ever since, I have had these dreams of falling forever.
There was a pause before Eames spoke. “I don’t dream.”
“Surely you must-”
“If I do, I don’t remember it. Sometimes I worry I’ll just fall asleep and never wake up,” Eames said. “I get insomnia, sometimes. From the stress of it.”
Yusuf regarded him silently for a long moment, conflicted. He was unsure of what to say, but it seemed so callous to say nothing at all. He grasped Eames’ hand again, lacing their fingers together as they lay there. His palm was a little clammy, but Yusuf didn’t mind. He didn’t want to let go.
“Would you like me to stay?”
“You don’t have to.”
“I will if you want me to.”
“You don’t have any more class tonight?”
“I do not.”
Eames squeezed his hand and smiled. “All right, then. You should probably take off your specs, as much as I like them.”
Yusuf did, letting Eames set them aside for him again. His fingers came up to tangle in Yusuf’s curls and he wasn’t certain who leaned in, but suddenly they were kissing. Eames’ lips were dry this time, not sticky with syrup or salve, and the feeling of real contact, of skin on skin, sparked heat low in his belly. Yusuf was quick to part his lips, eager for the feel of Eames’ tongue curling against his own, for the taste of his mouth and the deep pressure of his lips.
Eames’ hand unthreaded itself from his hair and made the slow descent down his shoulders and the curve of his back, finally finding its way beneath his shirt to run the length of his spine and over his side. Yusuf took the opportunity to do the same, a contented sigh falling from his lips as his hands at last came in contact with the warm expanse of skin that was Eames’ back, all hard muscle and velvet under his fingertips.
It was such a simple touch, only Eames’ hand on his side, their mouths fitted together snugly, but Yusuf felt the effects of it all over his body like the systematic workings of some localized poison, as sweet as it was deadly. Yusuf was drowning in it, soft mouths and hard hands, and he never wanted to come up for air. In that moment, he would have gladly traded any of several daily needs for a few more minutes to spend exploring the contours of Eames’ mouth.
Eventually, they had to resurface. Yusuf’s head lolled onto Eames’ shoulder the both of them breathing heavily, their hands still clutching at bare, slick skin. Yusuf turned his face into Eames’ neck and kissed the skin there under his jaw, feeling the other boy’s pulse flutter under his lips as he caught his breath.
Eames laughed softly in his ear. “Change your mind about that offer yet?”
Yusuf was prepared to ask Eames to which offer he was referring when it dawned on him, difficult to ignore when his trousers felt punishingly tight and his head swum with the most delicious sort of dizziness. He could feel the hot press of Eames’ at his hip.
“You know, to use the-”
“Yes,” Yusuf said. “That would be best, I think.”
“Unless you’d rather the bed.”
Yusuf extracted himself from their embrace with a snort. “You may have it.”
“Ta, love,” Eames said, sounding more than a little breathless. He was already flicking open his jeans, t-shirt riding up over his stomach. He fingered the zip of his trousers and smiled cheekily. “You can watch if you like.”
“Libertine,” Yusuf accused. He didn’t linger, ducking into the bathroom lest he give in to temptation.
Having already been brought to the edge once that evening, Yusuf harbored no illusions that he would last. Conscious of making a mess, he positioned himself over the sink. It was clumsy and frantic and he was off in thirty seconds flat, but quick as it was, his knees buckled with the sheer force of it. Yusuf braced his hands on either side of the sink, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against the cool surface of the mirror, each pant that escaped from his lips fogging little clouds on the silvered glass.
When he felt he could stand on his own again, Yusuf washed his hands and tucked himself back into his pants. He listened at the door but heard nothing. Cautiously, he opened it and caught Eames wiping at his stomach with a wad of tissue, his t-shirt on the floor.
“Forgive me, I assumed-”
Eames waved away his apology. “You’re fine.”
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and wriggled out of his jeans-no mean feat-and Yusuf was hopeless not to look on appreciatively. Eames’ legs were solid and toned, his calves shapely and covered in sandy hair. His thighs, attractively curved, disappeared into rather festive boxer briefs patterned in red, gold, and blue paisley.
He settled back on the bed. “Get as naked as you like.”
Yusuf needed a moment to gather his wits. “Pardon?”
“Undress,” Eames said slowly. “For bed, yeah?”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Yes, of course.”
Though it was difficult not to feel a slight stirring of self-consciousness when he had never been so naked in front of another boy, Yusuf found it rather flattering the way Eames’ eyes stayed on him as he kicked off his own trousers. After a moment of hesitation, Yusuf removed his shirt as well before climbing into bed with Eames. The boy’s arms encircled him immediately, his head bowed to kiss Yusuf’s shoulder. Their legs tangled together, and Yusuf smiled at the feeling of Eames’ calves rubbing his. He naturally had little body hair and the downy hair on Eames’ legs felt pleasant and soft against his skin.
“You’re so warm,” Eames murmured, after they had been lying there awhile. “Do you mind that side of the bed?”
“Not at all. But I am not so sure that I can sleep facing you,” he admitted. He offered an apologetic smile.
“That’s all right.” They untangled their respective limbs and Eames said, “So, do you want to be the big spoon or the little spoon?”
Yusuf laughed. “What are you talking about?”
“Me at your back or you at mine. Which would you like?”
“The first, I suppose.”
Eames was gleeful. “The little spoon, then.”
Yusuf turned onto his other side with a snort. “Must you make everything sound so degenerate?”
“I really must, darling.”
Eames wound an arm around his midsection, his knees tucked up under Yusuf’s. Suddenly the big spoon/little spoon metaphor made far more sense. He smiled, enjoying the warm, solid feel of Eames’ chest against his back. His forehead rested between Yusuf’s shoulder blades, his breathing soft.
“’s weekend tomorrow,” Eames murmured. “Got any plans?”
“I may work in the lab tomorrow, but I have nothing obligatory.”
“My dad’s coming up for a visit.”
“I take it you are not altogether pleased with this.”
“He’ll be wanting to know if I’ve come to my senses yet. Decided to give birds a go.”
“What do you intend to tell him?”
Eames snorted. “With any luck? To bugger off.” After a moment, he exhaled heavily. “I suspect I’ll make it up like I always do and tell him some beautiful girl’s been writing me love-letters.”
“And do you expect him to fall for your deceit so easily?”
“He will when I show him the letters. Relax, love,” he laughed when Yusuf stiffened in his hold. “They’re forgeries.”
“A specialty of yours?”
“Don’t tell me you aren’t impressed.”
“I had no intention of doing so.”
They lapsed into silence for a while. His eyelids were growing heavy, weighted down by a pleasant languor, though it was not late in the evening. He was drifting close to sleep when he heard Eames say his name. Yusuf shifted in his arms and mumbled sleepily in response.
“It’s not that I don’t want to tell him about this. About you,” Eames said. Yusuf only listened, waiting for Eames to continue. “I just, I dunno, I just don’t want to deal with his shit. He wouldn’t understand.” There was a long pause before he spoke again. “Sometimes I feel like he doesn’t even try. You know it’s nothing to do with shame, right, Yusuf?”
It was a troubling admission and Yusuf took a moment before speaking, laying his hand over Eames’ in the interim. “I won’t make trouble for you. There’s no need to say anything.”
“You won’t hate me for it?”
“Of course not.”
“You’re sure, then?”
“Secrets are a necessary evil at times.”
Eames kissed his shoulder-in thanks, Yusuf supposed. It felt oddly repentant. “Don’t worry if you need to get up for anything,” Eames told him. “I’m a heavy sleeper. And if the snoring bothers you terribly, just give me a good jab in the ribs, yeah?”
“If you insist.”
Yusuf closed his eyes. After that, there was nothing but the gentle embrace of dreamless sleep.
Part 3