No Grand Gestures - Ch. 2
Title: No Grand Gestures (Chapter 2)
Author: Classlicity
Fandom: Inception
Pairings/Characters: Arthur/Eames, Ensemble
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Seventeen year old Arthur meets fine arts grad-student Eames at a club one night. Angst ensues. Again, thank you to sobota for beta-ing.
Chapter 1
It’s the last weekend in September and somehow Ariadne has convinced him to come on the official college tour. They’ve lived in this town their whole lives, running all over the campus in the summers; they’ve even taken classes for credit there, but she wants the authentic experience.
She’s already applied - early decision and all. Arthur doesn’t know what he wants. On one hand he’s lived in this town for seventeen years and that’s already getting repetitive, on the other hand he doesn’t know what he’ll do if they go to different universities. If Ariadne is joie de vivre, then Arthur is the grim light of reality. He’s practical, efficient, and cautious, which are all admirable character traits, but it means that without Ariadne, he would be lonely.
So he goes to ‘senior day’ with Ariadne and her dad, picks up all the literature, and makes a list of pros and cons in his head.
The cafeteria in the student union is packed, and Arthur’s not hungry, so he saves them a table outside. Fall is crisp around him and he loves it, because he loves his sweaters and blazers, and he doesn’t have to be self-conscious about his paleness anymore.
“Hullo, Arthur,” someone drawls from behind him. The hair on the back of Arthur’s neck stands up.
Eames’s messenger bag thunks onto the table and he slides into the chair across from Arthur. Arthur can’t move, can’t think, can barely breathe. The blush creeps up from under his collar, spreading across his cheeks with alarming speed. Eames manages to lounge in the uncomfortable plastic chair, legs spread wide, hands in his pocket.
He nudges Arthur with his foot. “The proper response would be ‘good afternoon, Eames.’”
“Salutations, Mr. Eames,” Arthur replies, once he finds his tongue. There’s nothing like old fashioned sarcasm to chase away the embarrassment of running into an almost-one-night-stand.
Eames’s broad grin stretches across those lips and Arthur flushes again. It’s like his cheeks are trying to make this awkward.
“Forgive the repetition, but I haven’t seen you here before, either.”
“I don’t go here.” Arthur bites back a ‘yet.’ He gets the feeling that he if says too much Eames will stop looking at him with that intrigued gleam in his eyes. That might be a good thing, he thinks, but for now he doesn’t want it to stop.
Eames’s foot nudges against his again, and Arthur knows it’s not an accident. He doesn’t blush this time.
“Then I can only assume you were stalking me.”
“You assume a lot.” Arthur straightens in his chair, tucking his feet under it. “Ariadne,” he says by way of explanation.
“Ah, the mythical Ariadne. I’m still upset with her, you know.”
Frowning, Arthur asks, “Why? You’ve never even met her.”
Eames laughs so loudly a couple of students turn to look at them. Arthur crosses his arms over his chest as Eames continues to chuckle.
Reaching for his messenger bag, Eames says, “Here’s the deal, love. Come have coffee with me, and I’ll forgive her.”
Arthur hesitates. He should finish the tour with Ariadne and her dad. Eames is obviously a college student, and British, and way out of his league. And this whole scenario has shot his comfort zone to shit.
“Alright.” Arthur pulls on his satchel and fishes out his phone. He types out Met up with a friend. Taking the bus home, and checks to make sure Eames is still standing there before he hits send.
“I know a great place,” Eames says stretching. “It’s only two blocks from here.”
Arthur nods. “Sounds good.”
His phone rings. He answers automatically, knowing already who it is. “What?” he asks, annoyed.
“I can see you through the window, you know. Who is that? He’s hot.”
Arthur sighs. “A friend. I’m hanging up now, Ari.”
“Arthur, wait!”
He punches the end call, and turns off his ringer. Eames watches, amused.
“For a couple that’s not together, she certainly has you on a short lead.”
Arthur bristles, replying, “Perhaps that’s the way I like it.”
“Oh, darling, do tell me how you like it.” Eames winks at him and Arthur smiles widely enough that his dimples show.
They chat as they walk through campus and onto a street Arthur is familiar with. Or rather, Eames talks and Arthur listens, answering questions when he’s asked, but trying not to give too much away. He learns that Eames is a grad student, studying painting. He’s from Kensington, he has an older sister and a younger brother that is about to enter university. Eames can’t stand asparagus, adores chocolate in all forms, and once made out with the middle Hanson brother.
Arthur doesn’t quite believe him about any of it.
Eames learns that Arthur is an only child, prefers dark chocolate over all others, and is charmingly skeptical.
When they reach the apartment complex, Arthur simply raises an eyebrow. “I suppose there is a quaint little café in the courtyard here?”
“Don’t be silly, Arthur. We’re going to my flat. I make the best coffee.”
Eames’s apartment is exactly what Arthur had expected. Small, galley kitchen complete with Mr. Coffee on the counter, flat screen TV and Xbox in the living room, with an overstuffed faux-leather couch to sit on. The afternoon light filters in through the open blinds of a small balcony. It smells like paint, pot, and the spices from whatever the people downstairs are cooking. What he hadn’t expected were the canvases and easel where the dining room table should’ve been.
Arthur leans against the island of the kitchen while Eames rifles through cabinets, looking for coffee filters.
“Eames,” Arthur says. Then, a little louder, when Eames doesn’t acknowledge him, “Eames. Stop.”
Eames runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Yusuf seems to have misplaced…”
“Mr. Eames.” Their eyes meet, and Arthur smiles, trying to be confident though his fingers are twitching like he’s nervous. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but the plan was supposed to be: get me in your flat, coffee and double entendres, and hopefully sex, right?”
Eames smirks. “When you put it like that, it all sounds so crass.”
“I suggest we skip that bit in the middle.”
There is about thirty seconds of silence where Arthur thinks he’s completely fucked this one up, but then Eames’s expression changes from confused to predatory.
“Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s terribly impolite to try and seduce someone in their own flat?”
“I’m sorry. We can pretend it’s your idea.”
In a flash, Eames is invading his personal space, pressing against him, a strong hand on the back of his neck, pulling their heads together. They’re forehead to forehead and Arthur expects a kiss, but it doesn’t come.
“Arthur.” Eames practically purrs. Arthur’s breath hitches, and he knows Eames noticed. “How about skipping the middle bit?”
“Yeah. Alright,” Arthur answers, tone purposefully disinterested.
Eames grins as he kisses him, fingers playing with the short hairs at the nape of his neck. When Arthur sucks lightly on his bottom lip, all humor is gone, and the kiss becomes needy, fervent. He’s never felt this kind of rush before where he just wants, moaning into between kisses, hands searching for any skin they can find.
Arthur’s Converse get kicked off before they even leave the kitchen. His sweater ends up strewn over the couch. Eames loses everything but his boxers in the hallway. A hand snakes into Arthur’s trousers, teasing him, stroking him until he’s panting in Eames’s mouth.
He doesn’t want to come yet, so he tugs on Eames’s hand, pulling it off of him. Eames makes a displeased little grunt, but barely has time to react before Arthur’s on his knees. On his knees in a stranger’s hallway licking a stranger’s cock through his boxers. Arthur doesn’t even know if this is real anymore, it’s so unlike him.
When Eames threads his fingers in his hair and hisses his name, Arthur decides he doesn’t care much for reality. Arthur keeps licking, flat broad strokes of his tongue, as he pulls down Eames’s boxers. He doesn’t flinch when Eames’s cock bobs up and hits him in the chin, just changes his angle. The grip in his hair becomes tighter, almost painful, when he sucks the head into his mouth. Arthur’s a mess, any other day he would hate it, saliva and precome leaking from the corners of his mouth. He deep throats Eames, something he’s never tried before, and it pulls another groan from the man.
“Christ. Arthur.” Eames pulls him off his dick by the hair, tilting his head back to look him in the eye. It stings, and Arthur’s cock jumps in his trousers. “If you keep that up I won’t have anything left to fuck you.”
He lets go of Arthur’s hair, watching him carefully. Licking his lips, Arthur is suddenly very aware of how disheveled he looks. Eames doesn’t make a move, though he sways a bit, like he’s trying too hard to stay still.
Arthur stands slowly, and the only sound is their ragged breathing. It occurs to him that they’re not touching, that Eames is waiting for him. He swallows, and it’s louder than he means it to be.
“That would be disappointing.”
Eames smiles again. “You’re a condescending tit.”
He pulls Arthur in for another kiss, and it’s far softer than their earlier ones. Grabbing him by the hips, Eames steers them into his bedroom. Arthur’s knees hit the back of the bed, and he falls on to it. Crawling over him, Eames’s lips are everywhere - his neck, his chest, his nipples, the dip of his pelvis.
Arthur’s writhing under him, and the noises he’s making are completely undignified. “Please, Eames,” he nearly whines.
Eames is kissing along the top of his trousers and Arthur can feel him grin against his skin. He unzips Arthur’s fly, and hooking his fingers in the waistband of Arthur’s boxers, finally divests him of the remains of his clothing. It’s cold when Eames rolls off of him to fish a condom and a bottle of lube from his bedside table. His nerves are on fire, and underneath the chant of ‘sexsexsex’ his brain keeps yelling ‘what the fuck, Arthur, what the flying fuck are you doing here!’
Arthur barely has time to think before Eames is kneeling between his legs, fingertip teasing against his asshole. It’s slick, and Eames presses in slowly, but Arthur is still unprepared for the foreignness of it. Eames is kissing him all over again, and his finger hits a spot inside of him that makes him moan.
“You’re so tight,” Eames murmurs against Arthur’s collarbone. He adds another finger, and Arthur bites his lip. His cock is pressing insistently at Eames’s stomach, and Arthur squirms, wanting more touch, more of everything.
Eames withdraws his fingers almost as slowly as they entered. Arthur does not whimper, but his hand flies to his cock. Eames uncurls Arthur’s fingers from their grip one by one.
“Not yet,” Eames says, tearing open the condom package with his teeth.
“Hurry the fuck up.” Arthur means to snap at him, but it comes out breathy and needy.
“Language, darling.”
Eames has one hand on Arthur’s hip, one hand on his own cock. He presses lightly against Arthur’s ass, but then backs off.
“Eames, if you don’t fuck me right the fuck now, so help me god I will fucking ruin you.”
Arthur has about five seconds to enjoy the smile that lights up Eames’s face before all he can think about is the thickness of the cock in his ass. His breath comes in short little bursts as Eames starts to move, and he can feel Eames watching him again.
Again, Arthur reaches for his dick, he’s panting and so hard. Eames makes no move to stop him this time, but his pace stutters for a split second before he’s fucking him faster. Finally, it’s too much - this man and the sex and his hand - and all of it makes him see stars, coming harder than he ever has, not even caring where it lands.
He pulls Eames’s mouth to him, kissing him fiercely, messing up whatever rhythm Eames had, but it doesn’t matter. They’re devouring each other, Eames groaning, fingers digging into Arthur’s hips. For Arthur, it’s almost anticlimactic when Eames comes; Eames slumps on top of him spent and gasping for air.
It’s probably the best sex that Arthur will ever have.
At some point, Arthur knows that they move. Eames ends up with his head on Arthur’s chest and body twisted up in the sheets, which is a little uncomfortable, but Arthur’s not complaining. They’re sticky and sweaty, and he deserves a trophy for how much he’s not complaining.
“Not bad, love, not bad. You’re no Hanson kid, but not bad,” Eames says, patting his thigh patronizingly.
“You’re a terrible liar, Mr. Eames,” Arthur replies. He can’t work up the energy to be anything but amused. “Aren’t the Hansons all dead by now? They were famous in what, ninety-five, ninety-six?”
“I would never lie to you, Arthur.” Arthur can hear the smirk in Eames’s voice. “Besides, how could I resist him? You remember the fame, the media, their pictures plastered all over the place.”
“I was three then. I barely remember Sesame Street.”
Eames scoots around until he’s able to look Arthur in the eye. His gaze sweeps over Arthur, searching for something. Propping his head up with one arm, he frowns, asking, “I’m not particularly good at maths, but wouldn’t that make you eighteen?”
“Seventeen,” Arthur answers, and he doesn’t know why he told the truth.
“Oh, Christ,” Eames moans, rolling flat on his back, burying his face in his hands. “I’m a child molester. I’m going to go to jail, and I’m going to die because everyone knows that child molesters don’t last long in jail. No one will come collect my body because mum’ll be too ashamed and Catherine’s afraid of flying.”
“You’re being melodramatic.”
“You’re not the one who just had sex with a minor. You can’t even vote!”
Arthur sits up, crossing his arms over his chest. This was getting ridiculous. He tells Eames so.
“You can’t smoke! You can’t enter into legally binding contracts!”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, Eames,” Arthur sighs, getting out of bed. He pulls on his trousers and goes in search of the rest of his clothes.
Eames catches up to him as Arthur’s pulling on his Converse. He’s still naked, and Arthur is momentarily distracted by the sight of him, tan and muscular, lust spiking in his belly. It’s ignored, though, when Eames opens his mouth.
“I’m sorry, love, it’s just that I don’t date teenagers.”
Arthur rolls his eyes, slinging his satchel over his shoulder. There’s a dramatic exit waiting to be made, but he pauses just for a second, digging out a pen and an old receipt. He scribbles his phone number hastily and leaves it on the counter.
“This wasn’t a date, Eames. This was sex. Of the consensual kind. And maybe, once you get over this,” Arthur gestures half-heartedly, “whatever it is, you can call me.”
Ariadne would only give him a four on her ten point drama scale, as he refuses to actually slam the door on the way out, but there’s the familiar prickle of eyes on the back of his neck as he jogs down the stairs, and that makes him feel slightly better.
On to Chapter 3
Author: Classlicity
Fandom: Inception
Pairings/Characters: Arthur/Eames, Ensemble
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Seventeen year old Arthur meets fine arts grad-student Eames at a club one night. Angst ensues. Again, thank you to sobota for beta-ing.
Chapter 1
It’s the last weekend in September and somehow Ariadne has convinced him to come on the official college tour. They’ve lived in this town their whole lives, running all over the campus in the summers; they’ve even taken classes for credit there, but she wants the authentic experience.
She’s already applied - early decision and all. Arthur doesn’t know what he wants. On one hand he’s lived in this town for seventeen years and that’s already getting repetitive, on the other hand he doesn’t know what he’ll do if they go to different universities. If Ariadne is joie de vivre, then Arthur is the grim light of reality. He’s practical, efficient, and cautious, which are all admirable character traits, but it means that without Ariadne, he would be lonely.
So he goes to ‘senior day’ with Ariadne and her dad, picks up all the literature, and makes a list of pros and cons in his head.
The cafeteria in the student union is packed, and Arthur’s not hungry, so he saves them a table outside. Fall is crisp around him and he loves it, because he loves his sweaters and blazers, and he doesn’t have to be self-conscious about his paleness anymore.
“Hullo, Arthur,” someone drawls from behind him. The hair on the back of Arthur’s neck stands up.
Eames’s messenger bag thunks onto the table and he slides into the chair across from Arthur. Arthur can’t move, can’t think, can barely breathe. The blush creeps up from under his collar, spreading across his cheeks with alarming speed. Eames manages to lounge in the uncomfortable plastic chair, legs spread wide, hands in his pocket.
He nudges Arthur with his foot. “The proper response would be ‘good afternoon, Eames.’”
“Salutations, Mr. Eames,” Arthur replies, once he finds his tongue. There’s nothing like old fashioned sarcasm to chase away the embarrassment of running into an almost-one-night-stand.
Eames’s broad grin stretches across those lips and Arthur flushes again. It’s like his cheeks are trying to make this awkward.
“Forgive the repetition, but I haven’t seen you here before, either.”
“I don’t go here.” Arthur bites back a ‘yet.’ He gets the feeling that he if says too much Eames will stop looking at him with that intrigued gleam in his eyes. That might be a good thing, he thinks, but for now he doesn’t want it to stop.
Eames’s foot nudges against his again, and Arthur knows it’s not an accident. He doesn’t blush this time.
“Then I can only assume you were stalking me.”
“You assume a lot.” Arthur straightens in his chair, tucking his feet under it. “Ariadne,” he says by way of explanation.
“Ah, the mythical Ariadne. I’m still upset with her, you know.”
Frowning, Arthur asks, “Why? You’ve never even met her.”
Eames laughs so loudly a couple of students turn to look at them. Arthur crosses his arms over his chest as Eames continues to chuckle.
Reaching for his messenger bag, Eames says, “Here’s the deal, love. Come have coffee with me, and I’ll forgive her.”
Arthur hesitates. He should finish the tour with Ariadne and her dad. Eames is obviously a college student, and British, and way out of his league. And this whole scenario has shot his comfort zone to shit.
“Alright.” Arthur pulls on his satchel and fishes out his phone. He types out Met up with a friend. Taking the bus home, and checks to make sure Eames is still standing there before he hits send.
“I know a great place,” Eames says stretching. “It’s only two blocks from here.”
Arthur nods. “Sounds good.”
His phone rings. He answers automatically, knowing already who it is. “What?” he asks, annoyed.
“I can see you through the window, you know. Who is that? He’s hot.”
Arthur sighs. “A friend. I’m hanging up now, Ari.”
“Arthur, wait!”
He punches the end call, and turns off his ringer. Eames watches, amused.
“For a couple that’s not together, she certainly has you on a short lead.”
Arthur bristles, replying, “Perhaps that’s the way I like it.”
“Oh, darling, do tell me how you like it.” Eames winks at him and Arthur smiles widely enough that his dimples show.
They chat as they walk through campus and onto a street Arthur is familiar with. Or rather, Eames talks and Arthur listens, answering questions when he’s asked, but trying not to give too much away. He learns that Eames is a grad student, studying painting. He’s from Kensington, he has an older sister and a younger brother that is about to enter university. Eames can’t stand asparagus, adores chocolate in all forms, and once made out with the middle Hanson brother.
Arthur doesn’t quite believe him about any of it.
Eames learns that Arthur is an only child, prefers dark chocolate over all others, and is charmingly skeptical.
When they reach the apartment complex, Arthur simply raises an eyebrow. “I suppose there is a quaint little café in the courtyard here?”
“Don’t be silly, Arthur. We’re going to my flat. I make the best coffee.”
Eames’s apartment is exactly what Arthur had expected. Small, galley kitchen complete with Mr. Coffee on the counter, flat screen TV and Xbox in the living room, with an overstuffed faux-leather couch to sit on. The afternoon light filters in through the open blinds of a small balcony. It smells like paint, pot, and the spices from whatever the people downstairs are cooking. What he hadn’t expected were the canvases and easel where the dining room table should’ve been.
Arthur leans against the island of the kitchen while Eames rifles through cabinets, looking for coffee filters.
“Eames,” Arthur says. Then, a little louder, when Eames doesn’t acknowledge him, “Eames. Stop.”
Eames runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Yusuf seems to have misplaced…”
“Mr. Eames.” Their eyes meet, and Arthur smiles, trying to be confident though his fingers are twitching like he’s nervous. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but the plan was supposed to be: get me in your flat, coffee and double entendres, and hopefully sex, right?”
Eames smirks. “When you put it like that, it all sounds so crass.”
“I suggest we skip that bit in the middle.”
There is about thirty seconds of silence where Arthur thinks he’s completely fucked this one up, but then Eames’s expression changes from confused to predatory.
“Hasn’t anyone ever told you it’s terribly impolite to try and seduce someone in their own flat?”
“I’m sorry. We can pretend it’s your idea.”
In a flash, Eames is invading his personal space, pressing against him, a strong hand on the back of his neck, pulling their heads together. They’re forehead to forehead and Arthur expects a kiss, but it doesn’t come.
“Arthur.” Eames practically purrs. Arthur’s breath hitches, and he knows Eames noticed. “How about skipping the middle bit?”
“Yeah. Alright,” Arthur answers, tone purposefully disinterested.
Eames grins as he kisses him, fingers playing with the short hairs at the nape of his neck. When Arthur sucks lightly on his bottom lip, all humor is gone, and the kiss becomes needy, fervent. He’s never felt this kind of rush before where he just wants, moaning into between kisses, hands searching for any skin they can find.
Arthur’s Converse get kicked off before they even leave the kitchen. His sweater ends up strewn over the couch. Eames loses everything but his boxers in the hallway. A hand snakes into Arthur’s trousers, teasing him, stroking him until he’s panting in Eames’s mouth.
He doesn’t want to come yet, so he tugs on Eames’s hand, pulling it off of him. Eames makes a displeased little grunt, but barely has time to react before Arthur’s on his knees. On his knees in a stranger’s hallway licking a stranger’s cock through his boxers. Arthur doesn’t even know if this is real anymore, it’s so unlike him.
When Eames threads his fingers in his hair and hisses his name, Arthur decides he doesn’t care much for reality. Arthur keeps licking, flat broad strokes of his tongue, as he pulls down Eames’s boxers. He doesn’t flinch when Eames’s cock bobs up and hits him in the chin, just changes his angle. The grip in his hair becomes tighter, almost painful, when he sucks the head into his mouth. Arthur’s a mess, any other day he would hate it, saliva and precome leaking from the corners of his mouth. He deep throats Eames, something he’s never tried before, and it pulls another groan from the man.
“Christ. Arthur.” Eames pulls him off his dick by the hair, tilting his head back to look him in the eye. It stings, and Arthur’s cock jumps in his trousers. “If you keep that up I won’t have anything left to fuck you.”
He lets go of Arthur’s hair, watching him carefully. Licking his lips, Arthur is suddenly very aware of how disheveled he looks. Eames doesn’t make a move, though he sways a bit, like he’s trying too hard to stay still.
Arthur stands slowly, and the only sound is their ragged breathing. It occurs to him that they’re not touching, that Eames is waiting for him. He swallows, and it’s louder than he means it to be.
“That would be disappointing.”
Eames smiles again. “You’re a condescending tit.”
He pulls Arthur in for another kiss, and it’s far softer than their earlier ones. Grabbing him by the hips, Eames steers them into his bedroom. Arthur’s knees hit the back of the bed, and he falls on to it. Crawling over him, Eames’s lips are everywhere - his neck, his chest, his nipples, the dip of his pelvis.
Arthur’s writhing under him, and the noises he’s making are completely undignified. “Please, Eames,” he nearly whines.
Eames is kissing along the top of his trousers and Arthur can feel him grin against his skin. He unzips Arthur’s fly, and hooking his fingers in the waistband of Arthur’s boxers, finally divests him of the remains of his clothing. It’s cold when Eames rolls off of him to fish a condom and a bottle of lube from his bedside table. His nerves are on fire, and underneath the chant of ‘sexsexsex’ his brain keeps yelling ‘what the fuck, Arthur, what the flying fuck are you doing here!’
Arthur barely has time to think before Eames is kneeling between his legs, fingertip teasing against his asshole. It’s slick, and Eames presses in slowly, but Arthur is still unprepared for the foreignness of it. Eames is kissing him all over again, and his finger hits a spot inside of him that makes him moan.
“You’re so tight,” Eames murmurs against Arthur’s collarbone. He adds another finger, and Arthur bites his lip. His cock is pressing insistently at Eames’s stomach, and Arthur squirms, wanting more touch, more of everything.
Eames withdraws his fingers almost as slowly as they entered. Arthur does not whimper, but his hand flies to his cock. Eames uncurls Arthur’s fingers from their grip one by one.
“Not yet,” Eames says, tearing open the condom package with his teeth.
“Hurry the fuck up.” Arthur means to snap at him, but it comes out breathy and needy.
“Language, darling.”
Eames has one hand on Arthur’s hip, one hand on his own cock. He presses lightly against Arthur’s ass, but then backs off.
“Eames, if you don’t fuck me right the fuck now, so help me god I will fucking ruin you.”
Arthur has about five seconds to enjoy the smile that lights up Eames’s face before all he can think about is the thickness of the cock in his ass. His breath comes in short little bursts as Eames starts to move, and he can feel Eames watching him again.
Again, Arthur reaches for his dick, he’s panting and so hard. Eames makes no move to stop him this time, but his pace stutters for a split second before he’s fucking him faster. Finally, it’s too much - this man and the sex and his hand - and all of it makes him see stars, coming harder than he ever has, not even caring where it lands.
He pulls Eames’s mouth to him, kissing him fiercely, messing up whatever rhythm Eames had, but it doesn’t matter. They’re devouring each other, Eames groaning, fingers digging into Arthur’s hips. For Arthur, it’s almost anticlimactic when Eames comes; Eames slumps on top of him spent and gasping for air.
It’s probably the best sex that Arthur will ever have.
At some point, Arthur knows that they move. Eames ends up with his head on Arthur’s chest and body twisted up in the sheets, which is a little uncomfortable, but Arthur’s not complaining. They’re sticky and sweaty, and he deserves a trophy for how much he’s not complaining.
“Not bad, love, not bad. You’re no Hanson kid, but not bad,” Eames says, patting his thigh patronizingly.
“You’re a terrible liar, Mr. Eames,” Arthur replies. He can’t work up the energy to be anything but amused. “Aren’t the Hansons all dead by now? They were famous in what, ninety-five, ninety-six?”
“I would never lie to you, Arthur.” Arthur can hear the smirk in Eames’s voice. “Besides, how could I resist him? You remember the fame, the media, their pictures plastered all over the place.”
“I was three then. I barely remember Sesame Street.”
Eames scoots around until he’s able to look Arthur in the eye. His gaze sweeps over Arthur, searching for something. Propping his head up with one arm, he frowns, asking, “I’m not particularly good at maths, but wouldn’t that make you eighteen?”
“Seventeen,” Arthur answers, and he doesn’t know why he told the truth.
“Oh, Christ,” Eames moans, rolling flat on his back, burying his face in his hands. “I’m a child molester. I’m going to go to jail, and I’m going to die because everyone knows that child molesters don’t last long in jail. No one will come collect my body because mum’ll be too ashamed and Catherine’s afraid of flying.”
“You’re being melodramatic.”
“You’re not the one who just had sex with a minor. You can’t even vote!”
Arthur sits up, crossing his arms over his chest. This was getting ridiculous. He tells Eames so.
“You can’t smoke! You can’t enter into legally binding contracts!”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, Eames,” Arthur sighs, getting out of bed. He pulls on his trousers and goes in search of the rest of his clothes.
Eames catches up to him as Arthur’s pulling on his Converse. He’s still naked, and Arthur is momentarily distracted by the sight of him, tan and muscular, lust spiking in his belly. It’s ignored, though, when Eames opens his mouth.
“I’m sorry, love, it’s just that I don’t date teenagers.”
Arthur rolls his eyes, slinging his satchel over his shoulder. There’s a dramatic exit waiting to be made, but he pauses just for a second, digging out a pen and an old receipt. He scribbles his phone number hastily and leaves it on the counter.
“This wasn’t a date, Eames. This was sex. Of the consensual kind. And maybe, once you get over this,” Arthur gestures half-heartedly, “whatever it is, you can call me.”
Ariadne would only give him a four on her ten point drama scale, as he refuses to actually slam the door on the way out, but there’s the familiar prickle of eyes on the back of his neck as he jogs down the stairs, and that makes him feel slightly better.
On to Chapter 3