fic: Tell my love to wreck it all (2/2)
see part one for details and warnings.
---
Arthur feels like such a high school cliché as he bikes up to Eames’ house and drops his bike in Eames’ yard. It’s late enough that Eames’ parents are probably asleep, but Eames is a night owl, so Arthur knows Eames will be up. Arthur slips around the house to Eames’ window up on the second floor, which, predictably, is open. Arthur can hear music playing softly in Eames’ room.
“Eames,” Arthur hisses. He pauses a moment, and when he doesn’t get a response, he tries again, slightly louder this time, “Eames.”
Arthur hears shuffling, and then Eames sticks his head out the window, confusion etched on his face. His expression quickly morphs to one of surprise.
“Arthur?”
“Can I come in?” Arthur asks.
Eames cracks a smile and gestures for Arthur to go around the house to the back door.
“What are you doing here?” Eames asks in a loud whisper when he opens the door to let Arthur in.
“Can we talk in your room?” Arthur says instead of answering, because he’d rather not get caught sneaking into Eames’ tonight.
Eames nods agreeably enough and takes Arthur’s hand, pulling him up the stairs to his room. As soon as the door shuts behind Arthur, Eames demands again, “Why are you here? Your parents would kill you.”
Arthur shrugs. “They won’t care,” he says, aiming for casual and probably missing by a long shot. “I’ve snuck out before.”
And it’s not a lie, either. Arthur has snuck out before, when he’s felt too trapped, too stuck in his own skin, but he’s never snuck out with any actual purpose before. Usually, it’s just to wander around and get some fresh air, clear his head, but tonight, tonight is different. Tonight, Arthur doesn’t quite want to be alone.
Eames gives Arthur a slightly troubled look. “Arthur,” he says. “I don’t want you to get in trouble if your parents notice you’re not home.”
Arthur has to laugh at that one. “Trust me; they won’t notice,” Arthur says. “If I don’t get back before they wake up, they’ll just think I overslept or something, and they hardly care if I don’t leave the house on time for school. They’d probably say I deserved it if I got a detention for that.”
Eames still doesn’t look convinced, so Arthur sighs and says soothingly, “Eames, it’s fine; I promise” and kisses him. Eames is still tense, like he doesn’t quite believe Arthur, but he soon melts into the kiss and Arthur pulls away with a small smile.
“My parents aren’t going to do anything, okay?” Arthur says, gently and so, so sure. He shrugs. “I just wanted to spend more time with you.”
“Oh?” Eames says, arching an eyebrow. There’s a hint of a smirk playing at Eames’ lips now, so Arthur knows he’s persuaded Eames to stop fretting so much.
Arthur hums in affirmation and nods, leaning in to kiss Eames again. “I just miss you so much,” Arthur murmurs against Eames’ mouth. “You have no idea.”
Eames leans into Arthur, closing off any distance between their bodies. “Is that so?” Eames purrs.
Arthur smiles and kisses Eames, long and deep and sweet, until Eames is panting and making these soft keening noises into Arthur’s mouth. It’s not long before they’re tumbling onto Eames’ bed and scrambling to toss their clothing aside. Eames leans down and kisses Arthur, and Arthur groans at the feel of Eames’ skin pressed against his own. Arthur slides his hands down Eames’ back, feeling the firm muscle beneath his fingertips, and Eames breathes against Arthur’s mouth.
“Arthur,” Eames pants, grinding his hips down against Arthur’s, and then sensation sends shivers down Arthur’s spine, so fucking good but just shy of being enough.
Arthur leaves a trail of kisses along Eames’ neck and then comes back up to capture Eames’ mouth with his own. They kiss for what feels like hours, curious hands mapping out the planes of each other’s bodies, no hurry, no rush for once, no need to be quick and hasty about it because they have time, hours and hours stretching before them, endless.
Arthur inhales sharply when he feels Eames’ fingers pressing into him and his eyelids flutter. Eames drops sloppy kisses to Arthur’s neck, biting down at Arthur’s collarbone. Arthur swallows back a moan and tries to remember how to breathe.
“Fuck, Arthur,” Eames says, voice low and wrecked with want. “You’re so beautiful, Jesus Christ.”
Arthur can’t stop the soft noise that slips past his lips this time, and he reaches out to press his fingers to Eames’ lips, which are red and hot and kiss-swollen. Eames nips at Arthur’s fingertips, and Arthur growls at the back of his throat, yanking Eames down so he can kiss him again. Arthur is thankful for Eames’ mouth on his a moment later when Eames pushes into him, because it muffles the loud moan that wants to escape from Arthur’s lips. Eames pants against Arthur’s mouth and tells him how beautiful he is, how fucking perfect he is, and Arthur buries his face in Eames’ neck and tries his hardest not to get too loud, lest he wake Eames’ parents.
And this is nothing like any time they’ve done this before, nothing like those times after school, frantic and desperate and too rushed because they don’t have time, because they can’t afford the time. No, this is soft and sweet, and Arthur clings to the delicious little noises Eames makes as he fucks into Arthur with slow, deep thrusts. It’s not long before Arthur’s close, soft moans spilling from his own mouth each time Eames thrusts into him and angles just right.
Arthur comes with Eames’ name rolling off of his tongue, back arching off the bed. Bright spots explode behind his eyelids as his orgasm crashes over him, and vaguely, he feels Eames’ hips stutter as he comes as well, groaning Arthur’s name into Arthur’s neck. It’s a moment or two before Arthur can hear anything besides the rush of blood in his ears, and even then, his heart is still racing. Arthur hisses softly at the feeling of Eames pulling out, and Eames presses a gentle kiss to Arthur’s mouth in apology. Eames throws an arm across Arthur’s waist and Arthur lets himself curl against Eames’ familiar warmth.
“I love you,” Eames murmurs into Arthur’s hair.
Arthur smiles just a touch and whispers back, “I love you too.”
Arthur can feel Eames smile as he mumbles a quiet goodnight to Arthur. Arthur lets his eyes slip shut and he listens to the comforting sound of Eames’ breathing as he slips off to sleep. And warm and safe and sleepy in Eames’ arms, Arthur lets himself believe, just for a moment, that everything’s alright. He lets himself believe, as he dozes off, that nothing’s wrong in his life, because it’s so easy, here in this safe little bubble where nothing can hurt him.
Arthur wakes something like thirty or forty minutes later, the comfortable, secure feeling gone again. He looks at Eames’ face, softened by sleep and illuminated by the scant moonlight filtering from the window, and reaches out to caress Eames’ cheek.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
Arthur manages to wiggle out of Eames’ arms without waking him, quietly slipping his clothes on. Arthur lets out a shaky breath once he’s dressed again and leans over to press a light kiss to Eames’ forehead before sneaking out of Eames’ house as silently as he’d come. It’s not until he’s several blocks away, chilly nighttime air whipping at his cheeks as he bikes as quickly as he can to Dom’s, that he realizes he’s crying and the reason that he can’t see well isn’t because he’s too tired or cold or going too fast but rather because tears are blurring his vision.
---
Arthur’s thought about this before (a lot, too much, probably), of disappearing and never coming back. His earliest ideas had consisted of various methods of running away to somewhere his parents would never find him, but as he sat down each time and tried to plan his escape, he quickly realized that half of running away from somewhere was having a place to run to, and he couldn’t think of anywhere he could go that his parents didn’t know about. Sometimes, he could convince himself that his parents wouldn’t care, that they’d be glad to be rid of him, but other times, this creeping fear that they’d come looking for him and never give him a moment’s peace ever again would overtake him and Arthur would abandon all plans of running off.
Arthur had kept telling himself that when the right opportunity came, he would know; that when the perfect solution finally came to him, he would be sure of it right down to his bones.
Well, he’s sure now.
---
Breaking into Dom’s house is easy; Arthur’s known where they keep the spare key hidden since he was little. He sneaks up the stairs to Dom’s room and tries not to feel creepy about it since it’s so late and Dom’s already asleep by now.
“Dom,” he says quietly, when he slips into the room.
Dom sits up with a jolt, eyes wide, but he doesn’t scream, which Arthur is thankful for, because he doesn’t need to get caught tonight.
“Arthur,” Dom says in surprise, panic still coloring his voice. “What the hell? Are you trying to give me a heart attack? What’re you doing here?”
Arthur smiles sheepishly and sits down on Dom’s swivel chair by his desk. “Sorry,” he says, not sounding quite sorry enough.
Dom laughs and rubs at his eyes. “’S okay,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. He blinks at Arthur. “What’s up?”
Arthur shrugs, quiet for a moment. “Remember that time in second grade,” Arthur says quietly, suddenly, “When you invited me over for the Fourth of July and we stayed up so late lighting sparklers and your mom had to drag us inside?”
Dom looks a touch confused as to where this is coming from, but he grins at the memory anyways.
“And remember that time we went to the park and you got stuck in the monkey bars?” Arthur says around a chuckle.
“Okay, that was not funny,” Dom says, but he’s laughing anyways. “At least I never lost my swim trunks at the pool.”
Arthur covers his face with his hands. “Oh god, that was so embarrassing,” he groans, and Dom just laughs.
Arthur ends up spending more time than he’d planned at Dom’s, chatting and reminiscing and laughing until his face hurts from smiling so much. Arthur doesn’t quite realize how long he’s been at Dom’s until he yawns hard enough to hurt and glances at the clock. Arthur jumps up.
“Oh fuck,” he says. “It’s really late. I should go.”
Dom laughs and flops back in his bed. “Yeah,” he says. “Or you could, y’know, not break into my house in the middle of the night.”
Arthur grins. “I’ll try to break this terrible habit,” he promises with false sincerity as he stands to leave.
“See you tomorrow,” Dom mumbles as he settles in to sleep for another few hours before they have to get up for school.
“Bye,” Arthur says softly and slips out. His smile falls off his face the moment he’s outside and a heavy feeling settles into the pit of his stomach. He picks up his bike from where he’d dropped it in Dom’s yard and sets off towards home, feeling numb down to his core. He hardly even feels the cold air biting through his layers of clothing.
---
Several blocks away, as Arthur’s arriving home and sneaking back in, Eames is waking up with a start to an empty bed, confused and worried and hurt. Several blocks away, Dom is lying awake in his own bed, trying to sleep but unable to shake the feeling that something is about to go very, very wrong. It takes Dom all of five minutes after Arthur leaves to pick up the phone and call Eames in hopes of alleviating the sense of impending doom Dom feels hovering over his shoulders.
“Hello?” Eames says as he picks up, sounding frazzled and distraught and everything Dom wasn’t hoping for.
“Hey,” Dom says. He sighs, wondering what he even means to say. “I didn’t wake you did I?”
“What? No,” Eames says. He’s quiet for a long moment before saying, “I woke up a little while ago, and Arthur was gone. He came over tonight and I thought he was staying, but he’s gone and I have no idea where he went.”
Dom swallows. The feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach grows.
“He came here,” Dom tells Eames slowly, trying to work this out as he talks. “He left a few minutes ago, I would assume to go home. He just came over and started going on about all the great times we’d shared.”
Dom hears a sharp intake of breath on Eames’ side. He imagines Eames raking a hand through his hair and knows Eames is thinking the same thing he is: that this had been Arthur’s way of saying goodbye. And it hurts a little to think of how so like Arthur this is, this way he reaches out quietly without ever asking for help, this way he always smiles and acts his best when he’s at his worst.
“You don’t think-?” Eames says quietly, as if he can keep their suspicions from becoming real if he speaks softly enough.
“Eames, get the fuck over to Arthur’s, now,” Dom says sharply, frantically, throwing aside his comforter and jumping out of bed.
“Arthur isn’t…” Eames says, voice still soft and scared and shaking a little bit, so unlike how sure and fearless he usually is. “Y’know…”
“He might be,” Dom says, even though he knows that the last thing Eames needs to hear is that Arthur might actually be attempting to take his own life. “Get over there now, Eames. You live closer to him than me. You might still be able to catch up to him.”
Dom hears Eames let out a shaky breath. “Right,” Eames says, sounding more frightened than he probably means to. And then Eames hangs up and Dom tosses his phone aside so he can dress himself, trying not to let himself get too frazzled about the fact that he’s running a race against time.
---
Eames has never been more terrified in his life than in this very moment. He’s driving at least twice the speed limit and he’s so glad it’s the dead of the night because or else he knows he’d be stopped by that one policeman who always catches people for not stopping properly at stop signs. His heart is pounding in his ears as he races to get to Arthur’s, the fear that he might be too late, that he might not be able to save Arthur, that he might lose him forever, choking him, making it hard for him to focus on getting where he needs to be, but somehow, somehow Eames makes it to Arthur’s in one piece. And then he’s running up the front path to Arthur’s house and banging on the door and shouting, frantic and desperate and scared, so, so very scared.
It feels like hours for Arthur’s father to open the door, even though Eames knows it’s probably only been a handful of minutes. When Arthur’s father actually does open the door, he’s bleary eyed from sleep and irritated and he sneers at Eames none too kindly.
“Oh,” he says sharply. “It’s you. What the hell do you want?”
Eames doesn’t even respond. He just pushes his way past Arthur’s father to the stairs, darting up two at a time, ignoring completely how Arthur’s father shouts at him and storms up after him, and Eames would probably feel bad about being so rude if it weren’t for the fact that Arthur’s father is a complete and utter asshole and deserves a solid punch in the face.
“And just what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Arthur’s father snarls when he catches up with Eames at the landing at the top of the stares, just before Eames can reach Arthur’s room. He’s got a tight hold on Eames arm, keeping him back from Arthur’s room.
Eames shakes himself out of Arthur’s father’s grasp and shoves him. “I’m saving your son’s fucking life, you worthless twat,” Eames snaps and makes to open Arthur’s door, which, predictably, is locked.
Eames curses under his breath and is thankful that Dom arrives then and distracts Arthur’s father from Eames, giving Eames a chance to force the door open. Eames probably could pick the lock (he may or may not have gotten in trouble for doing that more than a few times in the past), but he doesn’t have anything to pick the lock open with, and besides, he doesn’t have that much time. Eames slams his body’s weight against the door instead, forcing it open with brute strength.
And Eames isn’t sure what he was expecting to find. He isn’t sure at all how he’d pictured it, because as soon as he opens the door, he can’t think anything but fuck, fuck, fuck, please let him be okay, because Arthur’s laying on his bed and his wrists are slit wide open and there’s blood everywhere, and Eames can’t remember being more frightened in his life. Eames’ heart is hammering in his ears and he’s shaking all over, afraid, so afraid that he’s already too late, that Arthur’s already gone.
“Oh god,” Dom breathes from somewhere behind Eames, sounding equally as scared as Eames is.
And that seems to snap Eames back to reality and suddenly everything’s happening so fast, the two of them rushing in, making sure Arthur is still alive, which he is, if only just barely. Then they’re grabbing towels or blankets or anything to press against Arthur’s arms, trying so desperately to stop the bleeding. Dom calls the hospital because Eames’ hands are shaking too much for him to be of much use. And Eames is crying, and fuck, he never cries, and he prays to a god he doesn’t even believe in that somehow, Arthur will make it, because he doesn’t know what he’ll do with himself if Arthur doesn’t.
---
Arthur regains consciousness in washes of awareness, slowly taking in more and more of his surroundings. He feels heavy and numb, like he’s been swaddled in a thick blanket, and everything feels a bit foggy. It’s his hearing that comes back to him first, the soft buzz of white noise, the indistinct murmur of people talking around him, the soft clatter of footsteps pacing around the room. Arthur’s fairly sure he slips in and out of this strange state of half-alertness, and it’s a while before he can make out anything besides the vague notion that something is happening around him. There are voices here and there, sometimes a woman’s voice, sometimes a man’s, but when Arthur finally blinks his eyes open, slowly, tentatively, with a considerable amount of effort, the room, or wherever he is, is quiet.
Arthur blinks heavily a few times before his vision settles into focus. The florescent lights feel strange to Arthur’s eyes, making him want to close his eyes and sink back into warm nothingness, and Arthur wonders how long he’s been out. Arthur slowly takes in the space around him, and yes, it is indeed a room, a hospital room by the looks of it. There’s a window to Arthur’s left and a curtain separating him from the other patients to Arthur’s right, and he slowly becomes aware of the quiet beeping and whirling of the various machines around him that are monitoring his body’s vital systems.
Arthur feels strangely disconnected from his whole body and realizes that he must’ve been pretty heavily sedated for the past… well, however long he’s been here. He feels like his limbs have been filled with lead, weighing him down, and when he tries to move, it’s a struggle. He manages to curl his fingers of his right hand in, but when he tries for his left, he finds that something is stopping him. It’s a warm, heavy weight, and when Arthur slowly, slowly looks down, he sees Eames, who’s fallen asleep in the chair next to Arthur’s bed, his hand grasping Arthur’s tightly, as if he’ll never let go.
Arthur feels a sharp tug in his chest, a painful sting of regret and remorse and guilt, and he feels like crying, because it was never supposed to happen like this. Arthur was supposed to have just slipped off, quietly, in the middle of the night, and Eames and Dom and everyone would be freed of the burden of having to worry on Arthur’s behalf. Arthur wasn’t supposed to have lived, and fuck, fuck, Arthur doesn’t even know what to think anymore. He knows he should feel grateful that he’s alive, that he’s been given another chance at life, but some sick, selfish part of himself isn’t, wishes that he hadn’t made it, because he can’t go back to that house, he just can’t. Arthur bites his lip and blinks his eyes against the tears that are fighting to fall. This wasn’t supposed to have turned out this way. Eames was never supposed to have seen Arthur like this. He was supposed to have been blissfully unaware, and Arthur was supposed to have- and then- but he-
Eames stirs.
Arthur draws in a shaky breath and tries to look at nothing in particular, because he’s afraid if he looks at Eames, he’ll lose it completely. Arthur feels when Eames’ eyes land on him, feels the instant Eames perks up from drowsy stupor to full alertness.
“Arthur,” Eames breathes.
Arthur can hear the relief in Eames’ voice. And it probably should ease the unpleasant feeling in Arthur’s stomach, but for some reason it just makes Arthur feel worse, the way Eames’ eyes are wide when Arthur finally looks over at him, the way Eames smiles at him like he’s so, so fragile.
“How are you feeling?” Eames asks Arthur quietly. He still hasn’t let go of Arthur’s hand.
Arthur just barely manages a smile that’s more like a grimace and it feels odd and unwelcome on his face. Eames squeezes his hand once and finally lets him go.
“I’ll go get a nurse,” he says, and hurries out, leaving Arthur alone.
Arthur lets out a breath and drops his head back on his pillow, staring at the ceiling. This was so not how he’d pictured this turning out.
---
Arthur is told that he has to stay at the hospital for the next couple days to be monitored, because apparently he’s lost a lot of blood and the cuts on his arms are pretty severe and the doctors want to be sure that he’s mentally stable enough to return to his own home without being a danger to himself. The police come by sometime through Arthur’s first waking day at the hospital, because apparently the doctors and nurses found enough physical evidence on Arthur’s body to raise concerns of domestic abuse, and Arthur spends a few nerve-wracking hours being questioned about his parents and his life at home. It’s a strange mix of relieved and uneasy to discover that his parents are currently under police custody, because while he’s aware that logically, they probably deserve it, they’re still his parents, and it’s a little hard to stomach. After the police leave, Arthur wonders if he’ll have to go to court against his parents. He really hopes not; he doesn’t feel strong enough to handle that anytime soon.
Arthur’s nurse is a pretty, petite woman named Ariadne who comes in every few hours to check his vital stats and occasionally give him some more pain medications, because when the medications wear off, his arms begin to ache.
“Those are some pretty nasty cuts,” she says to him once as she’s injecting the dose of pain meds into his IV. Arthur’s in the room alone right now, as Dom and Eames are at school. “You’re lucky your friends found you so quickly.”
Arthur just hums and nods politely, not really knowing what to say in response to that. Ariadne goes on, good cheer unperturbed.
“That boy, the British one,” she says, moving next to change the bandages wrapped around Arthur’s arms. “He refused to leave that night when you were brought in. You must be close.”
“He’s my boyfriend,” Arthur mumbles, still too numb in the aftershock of everything that’s happened to be afraid of what Ariadne might think.
And Arthur supposes he half-expects Ariadne to tense up and scowl at him for that, but she only smiles a little wider as she secures his bandages into place.
“You really are lucky, then,” she says softly.
Ariadne’s just finishing up with his bandages when Eames pokes his head into the room, arriving, as usual, as soon as he can after school’s over for the day. Ariadne smiles politely at Eames, who nods in greeting at her.
“Alright,” she says, gathering up the old bandages to dispose of. “That should do it. I’ll be back in a few hours to check up on you. If you need anything, just call.”
Arthur smiles a brief thanks at her, and she sweeps out of the room to check on one of her other patients. Eames approaches and sits on the edge of Arthur’s bed.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, his usual careless grin, the one he puts on mostly for show, falling into something softer, something more sincere.
Arthur shrugs. “I’m fine,” he says, the well-worn lie feeling heavy on his tongue. The ache he’s been feeling has died down a little bit thanks to the painkillers, but he’s certainly not fine.
Eames narrows his eyes at Arthur and frowns. “Liar,” he says, and Arthur can tell he’s trying to sound playful, but there’s always something too serious in Eames’ voice when he says that.
Arthur smiles as best he can and shrugs casually, as if it’s a joke, even though they can both feel the weight of everything around them. Eames presses his lips together and scoots a little closer, toying with Arthur’s fingers. His expression has shifted into something thoughtful, concerned.
“Arthur,” Eames says softly. “Are you upset that you lived?”
And he doesn’t sound harsh or accusing like he could; he merely sounds worried, sad in a way that goes deeper than ordinary sadness. Arthur bites his lip, not quite knowing how to answer that without telling another blatant lie.
“I just… It feels weird, okay?” Arthur says, trying to find some way to put his jumble of thoughts into words. “I didn’t expect to make it past that night; I hadn’t made any plans for what I might do after that night. And now, to have all that time I hadn’t accounted for suddenly at my disposal, it just feels really strange. I don’t know how to describe it.”
Eames grips Arthur’s hand tighter. “Well, you’re living with me now,” he declares, sounding like he’s afraid he might lose Arthur at any moment. “My parents already agreed to it. As soon as you’re discharged, you’ll be coming home with us.”
Arthur sighs and gives Eames a tired smile, reaching with his free hand to smooth out the anxious lines creased into Eames’ forehead. He can hear what Eames isn’t saying, what Eames doesn’t want to say, the soft I can’t lose you, I can’t do this all over again that Arthur isn’t sure how he’s ever missed before.
“Relax, Eames,” Arthur says, sounding more sure than he feels. “I’m not going anywhere.”
---
Arthur wishes he could say that things are simple from then on out, but that would be a complete and utter lie. Things are tricky, of course they are, what with moving him into Eames’ house, and being talked into going to therapy because apparently he has a whole host of psychological issues he’s never even bothered to acknowledge and he’s a ‘danger to himself,’ and somehow trying to return to school without everyone staring at him like he’s some sort of freakshow. It’s difficult, even without having to deal with all of the legal business that comes with getting a restraining order against his parents and Eames’ parents becoming his legal guardians, and sometimes, Arthur feels that familiar sinking feeling of just wanting to give up on everything and disappear.
But then there’s Eames. Oh god, Eames. He’s so wonderful and supportive and glares down anyone who dares look Arthur’s way with anything less than politeness, jumps to Arthur’s defense when anyone makes snide comments about Arthur’s recent mental breakdown (not that Arthur needs defending, he can do that plenty well himself, thank you, but it’s nice, in a way, having someone to do that for him). Arthur can’t imagine how he could ever think of giving Eames up just like that and could never dream of doing such a thing again, because okay, maybe it’s a little selfish, but he supposes that people have a right to be selfish every so often (and Eames insists that they do).
And it’s not perfect, of course not, things are never perfect, and there are times Arthur still hurts so much that he wonders why anyone would ever even try, but then Eames does something incredible and stupid and amazing and sometimes, sometimes, Arthur is so happy he feels like he could cry. Once, he actually does cry.
“Arthur!” Eames exclaims, frantic, rushing to his side.
They’re supposed to be doing homework, and Arthur has a shit ton of things to do, assignments to catch up on, and he so doesn’t have time to get distracted, but he can’t help it. It’s not like anything extraordinary just happened; it’s just Arthur happened to glance up from his work and the late afternoon sun happened to be hitting Eames’ face just right, his eyelashes casting long shadows across his cheeks, and then Eames happened to look up and catch Arthur’s eye and grin. It not anything extraordinary, but in that moment, Arthur had been hit with the force of everything that was his, really, really his, unspoiled and beautiful and just for him.
“Arthur, is everything okay?” Eames asks, worried and fretful, cupping Arthur’s face in his hands and brushing away the tears with the pads of his thumbs.
And Arthur laughs, a sound choked and broken with trembling breaths, and shakes his head, smiling so widely that his face is beginning to hurt.
“I-I didn’t know people actually did this in real life,” Arthur says, wiping incredulously at his tears, because seriously, how is this his life.
“Is something wrong?” Eames asks, shoulders still tense, expression concerned.
Arthur laughs again and insists, “No, no, Eames, I’m fine. I’m great. I just- I don’t even know. I’m just so happy.” And then Arthur laughs, because he can’t remember the last time he said he was happy and actually meant it (and seriously, what does that even say about Arthur’s life?).
Eames’ shoulders sag in relief and his expression melts into something soft and fond. He sighs and smiles, running a hand through Arthur’s hair.
“You’re completely mad, you know that?” Eames says, voice too warm.
And Arthur just laughs and kisses Eames, silly with too much feeling, and decides that this, Eames, is so, so worth it.
END.
---
Arthur feels like such a high school cliché as he bikes up to Eames’ house and drops his bike in Eames’ yard. It’s late enough that Eames’ parents are probably asleep, but Eames is a night owl, so Arthur knows Eames will be up. Arthur slips around the house to Eames’ window up on the second floor, which, predictably, is open. Arthur can hear music playing softly in Eames’ room.
“Eames,” Arthur hisses. He pauses a moment, and when he doesn’t get a response, he tries again, slightly louder this time, “Eames.”
Arthur hears shuffling, and then Eames sticks his head out the window, confusion etched on his face. His expression quickly morphs to one of surprise.
“Arthur?”
“Can I come in?” Arthur asks.
Eames cracks a smile and gestures for Arthur to go around the house to the back door.
“What are you doing here?” Eames asks in a loud whisper when he opens the door to let Arthur in.
“Can we talk in your room?” Arthur says instead of answering, because he’d rather not get caught sneaking into Eames’ tonight.
Eames nods agreeably enough and takes Arthur’s hand, pulling him up the stairs to his room. As soon as the door shuts behind Arthur, Eames demands again, “Why are you here? Your parents would kill you.”
Arthur shrugs. “They won’t care,” he says, aiming for casual and probably missing by a long shot. “I’ve snuck out before.”
And it’s not a lie, either. Arthur has snuck out before, when he’s felt too trapped, too stuck in his own skin, but he’s never snuck out with any actual purpose before. Usually, it’s just to wander around and get some fresh air, clear his head, but tonight, tonight is different. Tonight, Arthur doesn’t quite want to be alone.
Eames gives Arthur a slightly troubled look. “Arthur,” he says. “I don’t want you to get in trouble if your parents notice you’re not home.”
Arthur has to laugh at that one. “Trust me; they won’t notice,” Arthur says. “If I don’t get back before they wake up, they’ll just think I overslept or something, and they hardly care if I don’t leave the house on time for school. They’d probably say I deserved it if I got a detention for that.”
Eames still doesn’t look convinced, so Arthur sighs and says soothingly, “Eames, it’s fine; I promise” and kisses him. Eames is still tense, like he doesn’t quite believe Arthur, but he soon melts into the kiss and Arthur pulls away with a small smile.
“My parents aren’t going to do anything, okay?” Arthur says, gently and so, so sure. He shrugs. “I just wanted to spend more time with you.”
“Oh?” Eames says, arching an eyebrow. There’s a hint of a smirk playing at Eames’ lips now, so Arthur knows he’s persuaded Eames to stop fretting so much.
Arthur hums in affirmation and nods, leaning in to kiss Eames again. “I just miss you so much,” Arthur murmurs against Eames’ mouth. “You have no idea.”
Eames leans into Arthur, closing off any distance between their bodies. “Is that so?” Eames purrs.
Arthur smiles and kisses Eames, long and deep and sweet, until Eames is panting and making these soft keening noises into Arthur’s mouth. It’s not long before they’re tumbling onto Eames’ bed and scrambling to toss their clothing aside. Eames leans down and kisses Arthur, and Arthur groans at the feel of Eames’ skin pressed against his own. Arthur slides his hands down Eames’ back, feeling the firm muscle beneath his fingertips, and Eames breathes against Arthur’s mouth.
“Arthur,” Eames pants, grinding his hips down against Arthur’s, and then sensation sends shivers down Arthur’s spine, so fucking good but just shy of being enough.
Arthur leaves a trail of kisses along Eames’ neck and then comes back up to capture Eames’ mouth with his own. They kiss for what feels like hours, curious hands mapping out the planes of each other’s bodies, no hurry, no rush for once, no need to be quick and hasty about it because they have time, hours and hours stretching before them, endless.
Arthur inhales sharply when he feels Eames’ fingers pressing into him and his eyelids flutter. Eames drops sloppy kisses to Arthur’s neck, biting down at Arthur’s collarbone. Arthur swallows back a moan and tries to remember how to breathe.
“Fuck, Arthur,” Eames says, voice low and wrecked with want. “You’re so beautiful, Jesus Christ.”
Arthur can’t stop the soft noise that slips past his lips this time, and he reaches out to press his fingers to Eames’ lips, which are red and hot and kiss-swollen. Eames nips at Arthur’s fingertips, and Arthur growls at the back of his throat, yanking Eames down so he can kiss him again. Arthur is thankful for Eames’ mouth on his a moment later when Eames pushes into him, because it muffles the loud moan that wants to escape from Arthur’s lips. Eames pants against Arthur’s mouth and tells him how beautiful he is, how fucking perfect he is, and Arthur buries his face in Eames’ neck and tries his hardest not to get too loud, lest he wake Eames’ parents.
And this is nothing like any time they’ve done this before, nothing like those times after school, frantic and desperate and too rushed because they don’t have time, because they can’t afford the time. No, this is soft and sweet, and Arthur clings to the delicious little noises Eames makes as he fucks into Arthur with slow, deep thrusts. It’s not long before Arthur’s close, soft moans spilling from his own mouth each time Eames thrusts into him and angles just right.
Arthur comes with Eames’ name rolling off of his tongue, back arching off the bed. Bright spots explode behind his eyelids as his orgasm crashes over him, and vaguely, he feels Eames’ hips stutter as he comes as well, groaning Arthur’s name into Arthur’s neck. It’s a moment or two before Arthur can hear anything besides the rush of blood in his ears, and even then, his heart is still racing. Arthur hisses softly at the feeling of Eames pulling out, and Eames presses a gentle kiss to Arthur’s mouth in apology. Eames throws an arm across Arthur’s waist and Arthur lets himself curl against Eames’ familiar warmth.
“I love you,” Eames murmurs into Arthur’s hair.
Arthur smiles just a touch and whispers back, “I love you too.”
Arthur can feel Eames smile as he mumbles a quiet goodnight to Arthur. Arthur lets his eyes slip shut and he listens to the comforting sound of Eames’ breathing as he slips off to sleep. And warm and safe and sleepy in Eames’ arms, Arthur lets himself believe, just for a moment, that everything’s alright. He lets himself believe, as he dozes off, that nothing’s wrong in his life, because it’s so easy, here in this safe little bubble where nothing can hurt him.
Arthur wakes something like thirty or forty minutes later, the comfortable, secure feeling gone again. He looks at Eames’ face, softened by sleep and illuminated by the scant moonlight filtering from the window, and reaches out to caress Eames’ cheek.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
Arthur manages to wiggle out of Eames’ arms without waking him, quietly slipping his clothes on. Arthur lets out a shaky breath once he’s dressed again and leans over to press a light kiss to Eames’ forehead before sneaking out of Eames’ house as silently as he’d come. It’s not until he’s several blocks away, chilly nighttime air whipping at his cheeks as he bikes as quickly as he can to Dom’s, that he realizes he’s crying and the reason that he can’t see well isn’t because he’s too tired or cold or going too fast but rather because tears are blurring his vision.
---
Arthur’s thought about this before (a lot, too much, probably), of disappearing and never coming back. His earliest ideas had consisted of various methods of running away to somewhere his parents would never find him, but as he sat down each time and tried to plan his escape, he quickly realized that half of running away from somewhere was having a place to run to, and he couldn’t think of anywhere he could go that his parents didn’t know about. Sometimes, he could convince himself that his parents wouldn’t care, that they’d be glad to be rid of him, but other times, this creeping fear that they’d come looking for him and never give him a moment’s peace ever again would overtake him and Arthur would abandon all plans of running off.
Arthur had kept telling himself that when the right opportunity came, he would know; that when the perfect solution finally came to him, he would be sure of it right down to his bones.
Well, he’s sure now.
---
Breaking into Dom’s house is easy; Arthur’s known where they keep the spare key hidden since he was little. He sneaks up the stairs to Dom’s room and tries not to feel creepy about it since it’s so late and Dom’s already asleep by now.
“Dom,” he says quietly, when he slips into the room.
Dom sits up with a jolt, eyes wide, but he doesn’t scream, which Arthur is thankful for, because he doesn’t need to get caught tonight.
“Arthur,” Dom says in surprise, panic still coloring his voice. “What the hell? Are you trying to give me a heart attack? What’re you doing here?”
Arthur smiles sheepishly and sits down on Dom’s swivel chair by his desk. “Sorry,” he says, not sounding quite sorry enough.
Dom laughs and rubs at his eyes. “’S okay,” he mumbles, voice thick with sleep. He blinks at Arthur. “What’s up?”
Arthur shrugs, quiet for a moment. “Remember that time in second grade,” Arthur says quietly, suddenly, “When you invited me over for the Fourth of July and we stayed up so late lighting sparklers and your mom had to drag us inside?”
Dom looks a touch confused as to where this is coming from, but he grins at the memory anyways.
“And remember that time we went to the park and you got stuck in the monkey bars?” Arthur says around a chuckle.
“Okay, that was not funny,” Dom says, but he’s laughing anyways. “At least I never lost my swim trunks at the pool.”
Arthur covers his face with his hands. “Oh god, that was so embarrassing,” he groans, and Dom just laughs.
Arthur ends up spending more time than he’d planned at Dom’s, chatting and reminiscing and laughing until his face hurts from smiling so much. Arthur doesn’t quite realize how long he’s been at Dom’s until he yawns hard enough to hurt and glances at the clock. Arthur jumps up.
“Oh fuck,” he says. “It’s really late. I should go.”
Dom laughs and flops back in his bed. “Yeah,” he says. “Or you could, y’know, not break into my house in the middle of the night.”
Arthur grins. “I’ll try to break this terrible habit,” he promises with false sincerity as he stands to leave.
“See you tomorrow,” Dom mumbles as he settles in to sleep for another few hours before they have to get up for school.
“Bye,” Arthur says softly and slips out. His smile falls off his face the moment he’s outside and a heavy feeling settles into the pit of his stomach. He picks up his bike from where he’d dropped it in Dom’s yard and sets off towards home, feeling numb down to his core. He hardly even feels the cold air biting through his layers of clothing.
---
Several blocks away, as Arthur’s arriving home and sneaking back in, Eames is waking up with a start to an empty bed, confused and worried and hurt. Several blocks away, Dom is lying awake in his own bed, trying to sleep but unable to shake the feeling that something is about to go very, very wrong. It takes Dom all of five minutes after Arthur leaves to pick up the phone and call Eames in hopes of alleviating the sense of impending doom Dom feels hovering over his shoulders.
“Hello?” Eames says as he picks up, sounding frazzled and distraught and everything Dom wasn’t hoping for.
“Hey,” Dom says. He sighs, wondering what he even means to say. “I didn’t wake you did I?”
“What? No,” Eames says. He’s quiet for a long moment before saying, “I woke up a little while ago, and Arthur was gone. He came over tonight and I thought he was staying, but he’s gone and I have no idea where he went.”
Dom swallows. The feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach grows.
“He came here,” Dom tells Eames slowly, trying to work this out as he talks. “He left a few minutes ago, I would assume to go home. He just came over and started going on about all the great times we’d shared.”
Dom hears a sharp intake of breath on Eames’ side. He imagines Eames raking a hand through his hair and knows Eames is thinking the same thing he is: that this had been Arthur’s way of saying goodbye. And it hurts a little to think of how so like Arthur this is, this way he reaches out quietly without ever asking for help, this way he always smiles and acts his best when he’s at his worst.
“You don’t think-?” Eames says quietly, as if he can keep their suspicions from becoming real if he speaks softly enough.
“Eames, get the fuck over to Arthur’s, now,” Dom says sharply, frantically, throwing aside his comforter and jumping out of bed.
“Arthur isn’t…” Eames says, voice still soft and scared and shaking a little bit, so unlike how sure and fearless he usually is. “Y’know…”
“He might be,” Dom says, even though he knows that the last thing Eames needs to hear is that Arthur might actually be attempting to take his own life. “Get over there now, Eames. You live closer to him than me. You might still be able to catch up to him.”
Dom hears Eames let out a shaky breath. “Right,” Eames says, sounding more frightened than he probably means to. And then Eames hangs up and Dom tosses his phone aside so he can dress himself, trying not to let himself get too frazzled about the fact that he’s running a race against time.
---
Eames has never been more terrified in his life than in this very moment. He’s driving at least twice the speed limit and he’s so glad it’s the dead of the night because or else he knows he’d be stopped by that one policeman who always catches people for not stopping properly at stop signs. His heart is pounding in his ears as he races to get to Arthur’s, the fear that he might be too late, that he might not be able to save Arthur, that he might lose him forever, choking him, making it hard for him to focus on getting where he needs to be, but somehow, somehow Eames makes it to Arthur’s in one piece. And then he’s running up the front path to Arthur’s house and banging on the door and shouting, frantic and desperate and scared, so, so very scared.
It feels like hours for Arthur’s father to open the door, even though Eames knows it’s probably only been a handful of minutes. When Arthur’s father actually does open the door, he’s bleary eyed from sleep and irritated and he sneers at Eames none too kindly.
“Oh,” he says sharply. “It’s you. What the hell do you want?”
Eames doesn’t even respond. He just pushes his way past Arthur’s father to the stairs, darting up two at a time, ignoring completely how Arthur’s father shouts at him and storms up after him, and Eames would probably feel bad about being so rude if it weren’t for the fact that Arthur’s father is a complete and utter asshole and deserves a solid punch in the face.
“And just what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Arthur’s father snarls when he catches up with Eames at the landing at the top of the stares, just before Eames can reach Arthur’s room. He’s got a tight hold on Eames arm, keeping him back from Arthur’s room.
Eames shakes himself out of Arthur’s father’s grasp and shoves him. “I’m saving your son’s fucking life, you worthless twat,” Eames snaps and makes to open Arthur’s door, which, predictably, is locked.
Eames curses under his breath and is thankful that Dom arrives then and distracts Arthur’s father from Eames, giving Eames a chance to force the door open. Eames probably could pick the lock (he may or may not have gotten in trouble for doing that more than a few times in the past), but he doesn’t have anything to pick the lock open with, and besides, he doesn’t have that much time. Eames slams his body’s weight against the door instead, forcing it open with brute strength.
And Eames isn’t sure what he was expecting to find. He isn’t sure at all how he’d pictured it, because as soon as he opens the door, he can’t think anything but fuck, fuck, fuck, please let him be okay, because Arthur’s laying on his bed and his wrists are slit wide open and there’s blood everywhere, and Eames can’t remember being more frightened in his life. Eames’ heart is hammering in his ears and he’s shaking all over, afraid, so afraid that he’s already too late, that Arthur’s already gone.
“Oh god,” Dom breathes from somewhere behind Eames, sounding equally as scared as Eames is.
And that seems to snap Eames back to reality and suddenly everything’s happening so fast, the two of them rushing in, making sure Arthur is still alive, which he is, if only just barely. Then they’re grabbing towels or blankets or anything to press against Arthur’s arms, trying so desperately to stop the bleeding. Dom calls the hospital because Eames’ hands are shaking too much for him to be of much use. And Eames is crying, and fuck, he never cries, and he prays to a god he doesn’t even believe in that somehow, Arthur will make it, because he doesn’t know what he’ll do with himself if Arthur doesn’t.
---
Arthur regains consciousness in washes of awareness, slowly taking in more and more of his surroundings. He feels heavy and numb, like he’s been swaddled in a thick blanket, and everything feels a bit foggy. It’s his hearing that comes back to him first, the soft buzz of white noise, the indistinct murmur of people talking around him, the soft clatter of footsteps pacing around the room. Arthur’s fairly sure he slips in and out of this strange state of half-alertness, and it’s a while before he can make out anything besides the vague notion that something is happening around him. There are voices here and there, sometimes a woman’s voice, sometimes a man’s, but when Arthur finally blinks his eyes open, slowly, tentatively, with a considerable amount of effort, the room, or wherever he is, is quiet.
Arthur blinks heavily a few times before his vision settles into focus. The florescent lights feel strange to Arthur’s eyes, making him want to close his eyes and sink back into warm nothingness, and Arthur wonders how long he’s been out. Arthur slowly takes in the space around him, and yes, it is indeed a room, a hospital room by the looks of it. There’s a window to Arthur’s left and a curtain separating him from the other patients to Arthur’s right, and he slowly becomes aware of the quiet beeping and whirling of the various machines around him that are monitoring his body’s vital systems.
Arthur feels strangely disconnected from his whole body and realizes that he must’ve been pretty heavily sedated for the past… well, however long he’s been here. He feels like his limbs have been filled with lead, weighing him down, and when he tries to move, it’s a struggle. He manages to curl his fingers of his right hand in, but when he tries for his left, he finds that something is stopping him. It’s a warm, heavy weight, and when Arthur slowly, slowly looks down, he sees Eames, who’s fallen asleep in the chair next to Arthur’s bed, his hand grasping Arthur’s tightly, as if he’ll never let go.
Arthur feels a sharp tug in his chest, a painful sting of regret and remorse and guilt, and he feels like crying, because it was never supposed to happen like this. Arthur was supposed to have just slipped off, quietly, in the middle of the night, and Eames and Dom and everyone would be freed of the burden of having to worry on Arthur’s behalf. Arthur wasn’t supposed to have lived, and fuck, fuck, Arthur doesn’t even know what to think anymore. He knows he should feel grateful that he’s alive, that he’s been given another chance at life, but some sick, selfish part of himself isn’t, wishes that he hadn’t made it, because he can’t go back to that house, he just can’t. Arthur bites his lip and blinks his eyes against the tears that are fighting to fall. This wasn’t supposed to have turned out this way. Eames was never supposed to have seen Arthur like this. He was supposed to have been blissfully unaware, and Arthur was supposed to have- and then- but he-
Eames stirs.
Arthur draws in a shaky breath and tries to look at nothing in particular, because he’s afraid if he looks at Eames, he’ll lose it completely. Arthur feels when Eames’ eyes land on him, feels the instant Eames perks up from drowsy stupor to full alertness.
“Arthur,” Eames breathes.
Arthur can hear the relief in Eames’ voice. And it probably should ease the unpleasant feeling in Arthur’s stomach, but for some reason it just makes Arthur feel worse, the way Eames’ eyes are wide when Arthur finally looks over at him, the way Eames smiles at him like he’s so, so fragile.
“How are you feeling?” Eames asks Arthur quietly. He still hasn’t let go of Arthur’s hand.
Arthur just barely manages a smile that’s more like a grimace and it feels odd and unwelcome on his face. Eames squeezes his hand once and finally lets him go.
“I’ll go get a nurse,” he says, and hurries out, leaving Arthur alone.
Arthur lets out a breath and drops his head back on his pillow, staring at the ceiling. This was so not how he’d pictured this turning out.
---
Arthur is told that he has to stay at the hospital for the next couple days to be monitored, because apparently he’s lost a lot of blood and the cuts on his arms are pretty severe and the doctors want to be sure that he’s mentally stable enough to return to his own home without being a danger to himself. The police come by sometime through Arthur’s first waking day at the hospital, because apparently the doctors and nurses found enough physical evidence on Arthur’s body to raise concerns of domestic abuse, and Arthur spends a few nerve-wracking hours being questioned about his parents and his life at home. It’s a strange mix of relieved and uneasy to discover that his parents are currently under police custody, because while he’s aware that logically, they probably deserve it, they’re still his parents, and it’s a little hard to stomach. After the police leave, Arthur wonders if he’ll have to go to court against his parents. He really hopes not; he doesn’t feel strong enough to handle that anytime soon.
Arthur’s nurse is a pretty, petite woman named Ariadne who comes in every few hours to check his vital stats and occasionally give him some more pain medications, because when the medications wear off, his arms begin to ache.
“Those are some pretty nasty cuts,” she says to him once as she’s injecting the dose of pain meds into his IV. Arthur’s in the room alone right now, as Dom and Eames are at school. “You’re lucky your friends found you so quickly.”
Arthur just hums and nods politely, not really knowing what to say in response to that. Ariadne goes on, good cheer unperturbed.
“That boy, the British one,” she says, moving next to change the bandages wrapped around Arthur’s arms. “He refused to leave that night when you were brought in. You must be close.”
“He’s my boyfriend,” Arthur mumbles, still too numb in the aftershock of everything that’s happened to be afraid of what Ariadne might think.
And Arthur supposes he half-expects Ariadne to tense up and scowl at him for that, but she only smiles a little wider as she secures his bandages into place.
“You really are lucky, then,” she says softly.
Ariadne’s just finishing up with his bandages when Eames pokes his head into the room, arriving, as usual, as soon as he can after school’s over for the day. Ariadne smiles politely at Eames, who nods in greeting at her.
“Alright,” she says, gathering up the old bandages to dispose of. “That should do it. I’ll be back in a few hours to check up on you. If you need anything, just call.”
Arthur smiles a brief thanks at her, and she sweeps out of the room to check on one of her other patients. Eames approaches and sits on the edge of Arthur’s bed.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, his usual careless grin, the one he puts on mostly for show, falling into something softer, something more sincere.
Arthur shrugs. “I’m fine,” he says, the well-worn lie feeling heavy on his tongue. The ache he’s been feeling has died down a little bit thanks to the painkillers, but he’s certainly not fine.
Eames narrows his eyes at Arthur and frowns. “Liar,” he says, and Arthur can tell he’s trying to sound playful, but there’s always something too serious in Eames’ voice when he says that.
Arthur smiles as best he can and shrugs casually, as if it’s a joke, even though they can both feel the weight of everything around them. Eames presses his lips together and scoots a little closer, toying with Arthur’s fingers. His expression has shifted into something thoughtful, concerned.
“Arthur,” Eames says softly. “Are you upset that you lived?”
And he doesn’t sound harsh or accusing like he could; he merely sounds worried, sad in a way that goes deeper than ordinary sadness. Arthur bites his lip, not quite knowing how to answer that without telling another blatant lie.
“I just… It feels weird, okay?” Arthur says, trying to find some way to put his jumble of thoughts into words. “I didn’t expect to make it past that night; I hadn’t made any plans for what I might do after that night. And now, to have all that time I hadn’t accounted for suddenly at my disposal, it just feels really strange. I don’t know how to describe it.”
Eames grips Arthur’s hand tighter. “Well, you’re living with me now,” he declares, sounding like he’s afraid he might lose Arthur at any moment. “My parents already agreed to it. As soon as you’re discharged, you’ll be coming home with us.”
Arthur sighs and gives Eames a tired smile, reaching with his free hand to smooth out the anxious lines creased into Eames’ forehead. He can hear what Eames isn’t saying, what Eames doesn’t want to say, the soft I can’t lose you, I can’t do this all over again that Arthur isn’t sure how he’s ever missed before.
“Relax, Eames,” Arthur says, sounding more sure than he feels. “I’m not going anywhere.”
---
Arthur wishes he could say that things are simple from then on out, but that would be a complete and utter lie. Things are tricky, of course they are, what with moving him into Eames’ house, and being talked into going to therapy because apparently he has a whole host of psychological issues he’s never even bothered to acknowledge and he’s a ‘danger to himself,’ and somehow trying to return to school without everyone staring at him like he’s some sort of freakshow. It’s difficult, even without having to deal with all of the legal business that comes with getting a restraining order against his parents and Eames’ parents becoming his legal guardians, and sometimes, Arthur feels that familiar sinking feeling of just wanting to give up on everything and disappear.
But then there’s Eames. Oh god, Eames. He’s so wonderful and supportive and glares down anyone who dares look Arthur’s way with anything less than politeness, jumps to Arthur’s defense when anyone makes snide comments about Arthur’s recent mental breakdown (not that Arthur needs defending, he can do that plenty well himself, thank you, but it’s nice, in a way, having someone to do that for him). Arthur can’t imagine how he could ever think of giving Eames up just like that and could never dream of doing such a thing again, because okay, maybe it’s a little selfish, but he supposes that people have a right to be selfish every so often (and Eames insists that they do).
And it’s not perfect, of course not, things are never perfect, and there are times Arthur still hurts so much that he wonders why anyone would ever even try, but then Eames does something incredible and stupid and amazing and sometimes, sometimes, Arthur is so happy he feels like he could cry. Once, he actually does cry.
“Arthur!” Eames exclaims, frantic, rushing to his side.
They’re supposed to be doing homework, and Arthur has a shit ton of things to do, assignments to catch up on, and he so doesn’t have time to get distracted, but he can’t help it. It’s not like anything extraordinary just happened; it’s just Arthur happened to glance up from his work and the late afternoon sun happened to be hitting Eames’ face just right, his eyelashes casting long shadows across his cheeks, and then Eames happened to look up and catch Arthur’s eye and grin. It not anything extraordinary, but in that moment, Arthur had been hit with the force of everything that was his, really, really his, unspoiled and beautiful and just for him.
“Arthur, is everything okay?” Eames asks, worried and fretful, cupping Arthur’s face in his hands and brushing away the tears with the pads of his thumbs.
And Arthur laughs, a sound choked and broken with trembling breaths, and shakes his head, smiling so widely that his face is beginning to hurt.
“I-I didn’t know people actually did this in real life,” Arthur says, wiping incredulously at his tears, because seriously, how is this his life.
“Is something wrong?” Eames asks, shoulders still tense, expression concerned.
Arthur laughs again and insists, “No, no, Eames, I’m fine. I’m great. I just- I don’t even know. I’m just so happy.” And then Arthur laughs, because he can’t remember the last time he said he was happy and actually meant it (and seriously, what does that even say about Arthur’s life?).
Eames’ shoulders sag in relief and his expression melts into something soft and fond. He sighs and smiles, running a hand through Arthur’s hair.
“You’re completely mad, you know that?” Eames says, voice too warm.
And Arthur just laughs and kisses Eames, silly with too much feeling, and decides that this, Eames, is so, so worth it.
END.