No Grand Gestures - Ch. 4
Title: No Grand Gestures (Chapter 4)
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. Much obliged to sobota for the beta and the constant prodding to get this fucking thing finished already. Only a few more chapters to go!
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Yusuf dominates Arthur at Burnout 3, because no one should be able to drive that way and live through it. Eames is surprisingly good back up when they play Halo, but he prefers the uncontrolled chaos of Grand Theft Auto.
They have a routine. Eames will call on Wednesday night, make a dirty suggestion, which Arthur will unequivocally shoot down. Eames will pout. Arthur attempted to ask him on a real date once, but he choked so badly on the words that Eames didn’t understand at all, so Arthur pretended it never happened.
Once the snow started falling, Eames insisted that Arthur shouldn’t be waiting for the bus otherwise he would ‘catch his death’, which Arthur thought sounded suspiciously like something his mother would say. So on Fridays, Eames will roll up to the high school in his ‘classic’ Mercedes, a trembling brown sedan with cracked leather seats that had seen better days. Arthur makes him park far away, which Eames says makes him feel more like a pervert than he already does, but really, Arthur just wants to avoid his classmate’s questions.
Freshman year, a blonde boy from the drama club had kissed him in the locker room when he thought no one was looking. He was wrong. Arthur had been tormented for a week before the bullies realized they couldn’t get a rise out of him. Ariadne had also split the lip of one of them when they tried to pants him in the cafeteria. The other boy transferred.
Friday nights are take out at Eames’s, and video games with Yusuf, sometimes wine with Dom and Mal, and Arthur giving in to Eames’s filthy ideas, which inevitably leaves them both gasping for breath and waiting for reality to come back into focus.
So when Eames calls on Wednesday sounding positively gleeful about the final project he has due on Monday, Arthur is naturally suspicious. And a little disappointed.
“I guess I won’t see you before Christmas break then,” Arthur says, cradling his cell phone on his shoulder. He types out a few words before deleting them and giving up. The economic policies and political climate of the Reagan years are not particularly stimulating.
“On the contrary, Arthur, your presence is required this weekend. Especially since Yusuf has ensconced himself in his lab partner’s living room slash mad scientist lair.” Eames’s voice goes low and conspiring and it sends a shiver up Arthur’s spine.
“I have finals to study for.”
“Why do you enjoy being so stubborn? You can do that here.”
“It just seems like a bad idea, that’s all. Neither one of us will get any work done.”
“I’m a big boy. I know when to put away my toys.”
Arthur is silent for so long that Eames repeats his name three times before he can get his attention.
“I need a model. Miles hated my last portrait.”
“Fine,” Arthur snaps, “But you owe me.”
“Of course, love. Anything you want. Ask away.”
Arthur hums deep in his throat, because he’s not going to embarrass himself by blurting out the first thing that comes to mind. “I’ll get back to you on that.”
“Friday then?” Eames asks, like it’s even a question.
“Yeah,” Arthur sighs. As if he could give any other answer.
-------
Eames has already dragged his easel into the living room in front of the couch and positioned one of the dining room chairs across from it.
Arthur regards the chair warily. “I don’t have to be naked for this, do I?”
“While I doubt there would be objections,” Eames answers with a wink, “it’s not a requirement.”
“Alright, let’s get this over with.” Arthur drops his backpack by the door.
“Hang on, love.” Eames grabs his wrist and pulls him close as Arthur tries to brush past him. “Are you angry with me?”
“No,” he answers. He doesn’t say ‘not with you’.
Studying the young man’s face, Eames brushes his thumb over Arthur’s jaw. “If you don’t want to pose for me, I won’t hold you to it,” he says softly.
Arthur smiles faintly. “Just make me look good.”
“Oh, well, in that case, I’m going to need more paint.”
“Asshole,” Arthur says, but he’s grinning enough to show his dimples. Eames kisses him then, slow and soft, and won’t let Arthur lick his way inside his mouth. When he pulls away, Arthur lets out a little dissatisfied whine that makes Eames chuckle.
“Yusuf left us a present. For inspiration.”
-------
Not for the first time, Arthur decides that Yusuf is a genius. He feels relaxed enough that he’s not concentrating on the ache in his joints from being so still for so long. Instead, the minutest details are leaping out at him, tumbling over and over in his mind.
For instance, when Eames was sketching an outline onto his canvas, Arthur noticed how he’d bite onto his bottom lip in concentration. When he picked up his brush, Arthur caught sight of a crooked pinky that made his curl inward with sympathy. He makes up stories about its history for a good hour before it occurs to him to ask.
“How did you break your finger?”
“Rugby. I was fifteen.”
It’s a pleasant image, imagining Eames playing rugby, so Arthur contents himself with that for a few minutes. It’s nice enough that Arthur stretches unconsciously.
“Stay still,” Eames scolds, “And emote. I’m supposed to be capturing some sort of feeling.”
Arthur scowls.
“That’s perfect, darling.”
He only manages to hold himself motionless for another couple seconds before he’s drumming his fingers on the arms of the chair and noticing the spots on Eames’s lips where he’s bitten them red. Shifting in his seat, Arthur earns another glare. He can’t remember Eames ever looking at him this intensely without them both being naked.
“You bite your lip when you concentrate,” Arthur says, hoping to push away the thoughts that are making his jeans too tight.
“I suppose I do.” Eames glances up at him, flicking his tongue over his bottom lip in a way that makes Arthur squirm. It doesn’t escape Eames, though, and he chuckles. “You need a break?”
“God, yes.” Arthur flings himself out of the chair so quickly he almost trips over his own feet. Eames tidies up while he stretches, popping knuckles and rolling his neck. When Eames slips out of the room, Arthur sums up the courage to take a peek at the canvas.
“Eames,” Arthur asks, arms crossed over his chest, “Why don’t I have a face yet?”
“Because,” Eames calls from the bedroom, “I hadn’t yet figured it out.”
“It’s just a face,” Arthur grouses as Eames emerges with a handful of paint tubes and brushes and another joint. Dropping the supplies on the end table, Eames slides onto the couch right behind the younger man.
Shrugging, he lights another joint, inhaling deeply. “But I have to get it right. Stop frowning, Arthur. Art is a process.” Strong hands wrap around Arthur’s waist and pull him down onto the couch, long legs tangling with Eames’s, his shoulders smacking uncomfortably against the armrest. The joint passes between them until it’s gone, and Arthur finds himself enjoying being sprawled across Eames’s lap, mesmerized by the stubble on his jaw.
“So,” Eames asks, breaking the peaceful silence, “What sort of payback have you devised for me?” With a smile, he tweaks one of Arthur’s nipples through his thin tee shirt.
Arthur hisses at the contact and swats at his hand. Pushing himself into a real sitting position, Arthur rolls the words over his tongue carefully before answering. “You owe me coffee.”
“Coffee?” Eames’s confusion is genuine, but it doesn’t stop the corners of his mouth from quirking up indulgently.
“Right. You are going to take me out for coffee.”
“Why Arthur, are you asking me on a date?”
Raising an eyebrow, Arthur looks him dead in the eye. “No, Mr. Eames, I believe you’re asking me.”
Eames smiles, but for a brief moment, Arthur sees his brow furrow with conflict. It flicks across his face so quickly that Arthur wonders if he’s imagining things.
“You know,” Eames drawls, voice empty of anything other than the usual teasing lilt, “I can make excellent coffee here.”
With more grace than Arthur knew he possessed, he swings his legs on either side of Eames and straddles him. Lips pressed in a thin line, Arthur hesitates for a minute before resting his hands between them. It’s difficult, perched on top of Eames’s strong thighs, not to press him into the couch, not to grind against him just to hear the sounds he’d make. Instead, Arthur swallows and glares. Letting his head loll back onto the couch cushions, Eames just smirks.
“I don’t want euphemistic coffee. If you remember, I’ve had that already,” Arthur says, trying to focus on Eames’s eyes, and not the bared line of his neck.
“Who could forget,” Eames replies, shifting his hips deliberately. Arthur puts a hand on Eames’s chest to steady himself, unconsciously brushing the cotton with his fingertips.
“Stop.” The glare is back, and it makes Eames’s smile falter. “That’s not what I meant. That’s not what I want.”
Eames’s hands drop to Arthur’s hips, gripping him hard and pulling them even closer together. Arthur’s half pissed-off, but Eames is kissing right under his ear, making him forget about being angry and helping him remember that he’s half hard.
“Then tell me what you want, darling.”
The words raise goose-bumps on his arms. “I already did.”
Eames nips his neck sharply enough that Arthur gasps. “Yes, but you have to say the words. You can’t just order me about,” Eames murmurs, brushing his lips over the welt. “Tell me what you want.”
“You’re an asshole.” He feels the scrape of teeth at the joint of his neck and shoulder, and his whole body shivers. “Fine. I want to go on a real date.”
“That’s a good boy. Don’t scowl.”
Arthur frowns anyway at the reminder of his youth. Lips ghost up his jugular and up the pale line of his jaw, over the rim of his ear. It’s a weakness of his and Eames knows it.
“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” Arthur asks, trying to mask his sudden twitches with annoyance. Because of his seat on Eames’s lap, he has a good four inches on the other man and his glare only skims the top of the Eames’s head, and is completely ignored. Catching Arthur’s earlobe between his teeth, Eames sucks until Arthur is squirming desperately against him, but it just makes Eames grip those slim hips tighter.
“We’re taking a break.” Eames’s voice is low and silky. “Tell me what you want.” The request is punctuated by a roll of hips that makes Arthur gasp involuntarily.
“I, uh, I couldn’t have been any clearer.” He hates when he stutters, but he’s given up resisting, gripping onto Eames’s broad shoulders and stretching his neck in offering.
“But I want to know more.”
Finally, Eames kisses him, and for a moment, it’s nothing but the press of tender lips. But Arthur can’t help it when he opens his mouth, dying for the taste of tea and weed and Eames, and so it becomes slick and hot and soon they’re both panting into each other’s mouths.
“I want you to take off that disgusting shirt.” The words spill out of Arthur in a rushed whisper. He pulls back from their kiss, eyes guarded, like he’s waiting to be disappointed.
Eames grunts, fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, Arthur not moving a muscle to help. “Fuck it,” Eames mutters, yanking at the flannel. It’s old enough that the threads snap under the pressure and Eames shimmies out of the shirt easily.
Bringing a hand up to rest lightly against Eames’s mouth, Arthur strokes his thumb over the full bottom lip almost reverently.
“Better?” Eames breathes into Arthur’s palm. There is an ache in his chest that tells him that this is how Arthur is supposed to look all the time - like he’s just received an unexpected gift.
“You have no idea,” Arthur growls, all sweetness gone from his face as he attacks Eames’s mouth with his own, sliding his hand to the back of Eames’s neck to hold him in place. It’s frantic, almost desperate, the way Arthur’s tugging at his hair, licking into his mouth, working at the fly of his jeans, and all Eames can do is hold on, groaning as nimble fingers work their way into his boxers.
When Arthur pulls off his own shirt, Eames gets a glimpse of him devastatingly flushed and decides that this is his second favorite expression. Slipping his hands under Arthur’s ass, Eames nudges him upward until Arthur gets the hint, straightening and pressing his knees into the sofa, using Eames’s shoulders for balance as he leans forward. Eames sighs quietly as some of the pressure on his erection eases.
“Tell me more.” Eames’s tongue flicks out to taste the dip in Arthur’s ribcage.
“Fuck, Eames,” Arthur stutters, feeling that lick everywhere. “You know what I want.”
His nipples aren’t particularly sensitive, but it still hurts when Eames bites one sharply.
“Shit!” He’s staring at Eames with something like panic on his face, features tight, but with dark eyes and his chest heaving. “I want you. I want all of you all the fucking time.”
There is no easy way for either of them to get out of their trousers, so it’s a flurry of hands, and wiggling, and not being able to touch. Still, it gives Eames a second to grab the lube he’d snuck in with his paints, and Arthur ends up in his lap again when they’re both naked and Arthur’s clutching a condom.
“Cheeky bastard,” Eames chuckles, running fingers down the cleft of Arthur’s ass and making him shiver. “All the time?”
“Fuck you,” Arthur replies, trying for venom but missing because their cocks are sliding over each other. He wraps a hand around Eames’s and it’s Eames’s turn to gasp. “I was late to calculus two weeks ago because of you.”
“How so?” Eames can barely open the cap of lube one-handed, but he manages, coating his fingers the best he can. His fingertips brush against Arthur’s hole, and he has just enough leverage to slip one in up to the first knuckle.
Letting out a low groan, Arthur pushes back against his hand and Eames adds a second finger. “It was Thursday and I couldn’t stop thinking about everything you said to me, shit…” He trails off as Eames twists his hand, trying to get deeper. “I had to jerk off.”
“Aren’t you a wicked boy,” Eames teases, but his voice is rough with want. He’s forced to pull his fingers out when Arthur tears open the condom, rising on his knees again. They kiss, open mouthed and sloppy, and Eames has to try very hard to be still as slender fingers roll the condom down his cock. His hips slide further down the cushion for a better angle, and there’s a breathless moment where their eyes meet, where he can roll the anticipation around on his tongue and it tastes like Arthur.
He’s expecting it when Arthur sinks down on him, but it still stabs him in the gut, inch by inch, so good it hurts. The rhythm that Arthur sets is a maddeningly slow rise and fall that has them both gasping for air within minutes. Eames fingers clutch reflexively at Arthur’s hips, leaving bruises near the sharp jut of his pelvic bone.
Arthur bends his head and catches Eames in a kiss again. When he pulls his mouth away, Arthur’s eyes are bright.
“If I had known it could be like this, I would’ve had sex years ago.”
Their hips meet again, and it takes Eames a minute to process anything but the heat and the pressure and the closeness of Arthur. But eventually it sinks in and Eames’s control snaps.
“Fuck me, darling.” He’s holding on too tight, and it has to hurt, but Arthur’s pants as Eames slams up into him don’t sound pained in the least. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Eames buries his head in the crook of Arthur’s neck, edges of his vision going white and blurry. When he comes, he can’t help it, he has to sink his teeth into the flesh where neck meets shoulder, and he knows that one does hurt, because Arthur cries out, but then he’s coming too, hot and sticky and messy all over both of them and some on Yusuf’s couch.
They stay wrapped up in each other until the sweat starts drying and it gets cold, and Arthur calls him a slob, rolling off him and padding to the shower. Eventually, they meander into the kitchen, Arthur already dressed in his tee shirt and boxers for bed, watching Eames microwave him some soup.
Arthur eating is an efficient affair; he never overfills his spoon, there are no drips or dribbles, and he rinses out his bowl and Eames’s without a second thought.
“Thank you,” Eames says softly. The sincerity in his eyes makes Arthur blush and he feels more naked than he was minutes ago.
“I suppose I need to sit down again. So you can…” he waves a hand at the canvas, uncomfortable.
Slipping off his stool, Eames casts a critical eye over Arthur’s face. “No, it’s not necessary. I can finish on my own.”
By the time Arthur has his laptop and notes out of his bag, Eames has already slipped in his ear buds and is humming happily to himself, palette in one hand, brush in another. At first he tries to sit on the couch, filling out college applications online, but Arthur can’t shake the embarrassment of watching his body, his face, brought to life from Eames’s memories. When he sighs and drags his work to the bedroom, Eames doesn’t even look up.
-------
He hears voices when he wakes up. His laptop is sitting on the floor where Eames must have set it when he came to bed. Arthur rolls on to his stomach and contemplates sleeping longer, but the banging of kitchen cabinets makes him too curious to try again.
“I thought I made it perfectly clear that I have no desire to go on holiday with you, Robert,” Eames snaps as Arthur shuffles his way down the hall.
“We’ve been planning this for months, Eames! You wouldn’t leave me to face my father alone, would you?”
“Maybe you should have thought about that before you slipped and fell on your econ professor’s cock.”
Chest tight, Arthur steps out of the hall and into Eames’s line of sight. Both men go tense and silent, Eames gripping a mug of tea like he wants to strangle it. Swallowing, he heads for the coffee pot, watching them surreptitiously while he measures out the grounds.
Robert is probably the most beautiful man he’s seen outside of the movies, all broad shoulders and blue eyes. With a sigh, he punches the on button too forcefully, and leaves Eames to argue with his gorgeous ex-whatever. Or he tries to, but he ends up hiding in the bathroom, hating himself but desperate to know more.
Someone clears their throat. “He’s a pretty young thing,” Robert says, emphasis on the young.
“He isn’t anything,” Eames bites out.
Arthur’s stomach clenches the way it does right before he’s about to be sick.
“Whatever you say. You’re entitled to a revenge fuck, I get it. But we were so good together, we can be good together. Come home with me for Christmas.”
Eames’s reply is so low and angry his voice almost breaks. “You are such a prick, Robert. I better be bloody entitled to a revenge fuck. I’m entitled to fuck anyone for any number of reasons, Robert, because we are not together anymore. I don’t have the time or the patience to deal with your fucking daddy issues anymore, Robert, so, no, I won’t be going home with you for Christmas, or any other fucking holiday you suggest.”
There’s the sound of a chair scraping across the floor and the door slamming shut, but Arthur is too busy trying not to vomit to pay any attention. He’s hurriedly pulling on his jeans when Eames finds him.
“I’m sorry you had to hear that, love.”
Ignoring him, Arthur slips on his Converse and grabs his laptop off the floor. As he tries to brush past the older man, a strong hand snakes out and grabs him by the arm.
“Let go of me.”
“Arthur.” The quiet way Eames says his name makes Arthur freeze. “Don’t go. I’m pissed at Robert, not you.”
For a few minutes Arthur can’t do anything but breathe. Finally, he gathers his courage enough to stammer, “This isn’t going to work, Eames. I can’t do this. I can’t be this for you anymore. So please, just let go.”
The grip loosens on his elbow, and Arthur takes off, grabbing his bag and flying out the door.
On to Chapter 5
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. Much obliged to sobota for the beta and the constant prodding to get this fucking thing finished already. Only a few more chapters to go!
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Yusuf dominates Arthur at Burnout 3, because no one should be able to drive that way and live through it. Eames is surprisingly good back up when they play Halo, but he prefers the uncontrolled chaos of Grand Theft Auto.
They have a routine. Eames will call on Wednesday night, make a dirty suggestion, which Arthur will unequivocally shoot down. Eames will pout. Arthur attempted to ask him on a real date once, but he choked so badly on the words that Eames didn’t understand at all, so Arthur pretended it never happened.
Once the snow started falling, Eames insisted that Arthur shouldn’t be waiting for the bus otherwise he would ‘catch his death’, which Arthur thought sounded suspiciously like something his mother would say. So on Fridays, Eames will roll up to the high school in his ‘classic’ Mercedes, a trembling brown sedan with cracked leather seats that had seen better days. Arthur makes him park far away, which Eames says makes him feel more like a pervert than he already does, but really, Arthur just wants to avoid his classmate’s questions.
Freshman year, a blonde boy from the drama club had kissed him in the locker room when he thought no one was looking. He was wrong. Arthur had been tormented for a week before the bullies realized they couldn’t get a rise out of him. Ariadne had also split the lip of one of them when they tried to pants him in the cafeteria. The other boy transferred.
Friday nights are take out at Eames’s, and video games with Yusuf, sometimes wine with Dom and Mal, and Arthur giving in to Eames’s filthy ideas, which inevitably leaves them both gasping for breath and waiting for reality to come back into focus.
So when Eames calls on Wednesday sounding positively gleeful about the final project he has due on Monday, Arthur is naturally suspicious. And a little disappointed.
“I guess I won’t see you before Christmas break then,” Arthur says, cradling his cell phone on his shoulder. He types out a few words before deleting them and giving up. The economic policies and political climate of the Reagan years are not particularly stimulating.
“On the contrary, Arthur, your presence is required this weekend. Especially since Yusuf has ensconced himself in his lab partner’s living room slash mad scientist lair.” Eames’s voice goes low and conspiring and it sends a shiver up Arthur’s spine.
“I have finals to study for.”
“Why do you enjoy being so stubborn? You can do that here.”
“It just seems like a bad idea, that’s all. Neither one of us will get any work done.”
“I’m a big boy. I know when to put away my toys.”
Arthur is silent for so long that Eames repeats his name three times before he can get his attention.
“I need a model. Miles hated my last portrait.”
“Fine,” Arthur snaps, “But you owe me.”
“Of course, love. Anything you want. Ask away.”
Arthur hums deep in his throat, because he’s not going to embarrass himself by blurting out the first thing that comes to mind. “I’ll get back to you on that.”
“Friday then?” Eames asks, like it’s even a question.
“Yeah,” Arthur sighs. As if he could give any other answer.
-------
Eames has already dragged his easel into the living room in front of the couch and positioned one of the dining room chairs across from it.
Arthur regards the chair warily. “I don’t have to be naked for this, do I?”
“While I doubt there would be objections,” Eames answers with a wink, “it’s not a requirement.”
“Alright, let’s get this over with.” Arthur drops his backpack by the door.
“Hang on, love.” Eames grabs his wrist and pulls him close as Arthur tries to brush past him. “Are you angry with me?”
“No,” he answers. He doesn’t say ‘not with you’.
Studying the young man’s face, Eames brushes his thumb over Arthur’s jaw. “If you don’t want to pose for me, I won’t hold you to it,” he says softly.
Arthur smiles faintly. “Just make me look good.”
“Oh, well, in that case, I’m going to need more paint.”
“Asshole,” Arthur says, but he’s grinning enough to show his dimples. Eames kisses him then, slow and soft, and won’t let Arthur lick his way inside his mouth. When he pulls away, Arthur lets out a little dissatisfied whine that makes Eames chuckle.
“Yusuf left us a present. For inspiration.”
-------
Not for the first time, Arthur decides that Yusuf is a genius. He feels relaxed enough that he’s not concentrating on the ache in his joints from being so still for so long. Instead, the minutest details are leaping out at him, tumbling over and over in his mind.
For instance, when Eames was sketching an outline onto his canvas, Arthur noticed how he’d bite onto his bottom lip in concentration. When he picked up his brush, Arthur caught sight of a crooked pinky that made his curl inward with sympathy. He makes up stories about its history for a good hour before it occurs to him to ask.
“How did you break your finger?”
“Rugby. I was fifteen.”
It’s a pleasant image, imagining Eames playing rugby, so Arthur contents himself with that for a few minutes. It’s nice enough that Arthur stretches unconsciously.
“Stay still,” Eames scolds, “And emote. I’m supposed to be capturing some sort of feeling.”
Arthur scowls.
“That’s perfect, darling.”
He only manages to hold himself motionless for another couple seconds before he’s drumming his fingers on the arms of the chair and noticing the spots on Eames’s lips where he’s bitten them red. Shifting in his seat, Arthur earns another glare. He can’t remember Eames ever looking at him this intensely without them both being naked.
“You bite your lip when you concentrate,” Arthur says, hoping to push away the thoughts that are making his jeans too tight.
“I suppose I do.” Eames glances up at him, flicking his tongue over his bottom lip in a way that makes Arthur squirm. It doesn’t escape Eames, though, and he chuckles. “You need a break?”
“God, yes.” Arthur flings himself out of the chair so quickly he almost trips over his own feet. Eames tidies up while he stretches, popping knuckles and rolling his neck. When Eames slips out of the room, Arthur sums up the courage to take a peek at the canvas.
“Eames,” Arthur asks, arms crossed over his chest, “Why don’t I have a face yet?”
“Because,” Eames calls from the bedroom, “I hadn’t yet figured it out.”
“It’s just a face,” Arthur grouses as Eames emerges with a handful of paint tubes and brushes and another joint. Dropping the supplies on the end table, Eames slides onto the couch right behind the younger man.
Shrugging, he lights another joint, inhaling deeply. “But I have to get it right. Stop frowning, Arthur. Art is a process.” Strong hands wrap around Arthur’s waist and pull him down onto the couch, long legs tangling with Eames’s, his shoulders smacking uncomfortably against the armrest. The joint passes between them until it’s gone, and Arthur finds himself enjoying being sprawled across Eames’s lap, mesmerized by the stubble on his jaw.
“So,” Eames asks, breaking the peaceful silence, “What sort of payback have you devised for me?” With a smile, he tweaks one of Arthur’s nipples through his thin tee shirt.
Arthur hisses at the contact and swats at his hand. Pushing himself into a real sitting position, Arthur rolls the words over his tongue carefully before answering. “You owe me coffee.”
“Coffee?” Eames’s confusion is genuine, but it doesn’t stop the corners of his mouth from quirking up indulgently.
“Right. You are going to take me out for coffee.”
“Why Arthur, are you asking me on a date?”
Raising an eyebrow, Arthur looks him dead in the eye. “No, Mr. Eames, I believe you’re asking me.”
Eames smiles, but for a brief moment, Arthur sees his brow furrow with conflict. It flicks across his face so quickly that Arthur wonders if he’s imagining things.
“You know,” Eames drawls, voice empty of anything other than the usual teasing lilt, “I can make excellent coffee here.”
With more grace than Arthur knew he possessed, he swings his legs on either side of Eames and straddles him. Lips pressed in a thin line, Arthur hesitates for a minute before resting his hands between them. It’s difficult, perched on top of Eames’s strong thighs, not to press him into the couch, not to grind against him just to hear the sounds he’d make. Instead, Arthur swallows and glares. Letting his head loll back onto the couch cushions, Eames just smirks.
“I don’t want euphemistic coffee. If you remember, I’ve had that already,” Arthur says, trying to focus on Eames’s eyes, and not the bared line of his neck.
“Who could forget,” Eames replies, shifting his hips deliberately. Arthur puts a hand on Eames’s chest to steady himself, unconsciously brushing the cotton with his fingertips.
“Stop.” The glare is back, and it makes Eames’s smile falter. “That’s not what I meant. That’s not what I want.”
Eames’s hands drop to Arthur’s hips, gripping him hard and pulling them even closer together. Arthur’s half pissed-off, but Eames is kissing right under his ear, making him forget about being angry and helping him remember that he’s half hard.
“Then tell me what you want, darling.”
The words raise goose-bumps on his arms. “I already did.”
Eames nips his neck sharply enough that Arthur gasps. “Yes, but you have to say the words. You can’t just order me about,” Eames murmurs, brushing his lips over the welt. “Tell me what you want.”
“You’re an asshole.” He feels the scrape of teeth at the joint of his neck and shoulder, and his whole body shivers. “Fine. I want to go on a real date.”
“That’s a good boy. Don’t scowl.”
Arthur frowns anyway at the reminder of his youth. Lips ghost up his jugular and up the pale line of his jaw, over the rim of his ear. It’s a weakness of his and Eames knows it.
“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” Arthur asks, trying to mask his sudden twitches with annoyance. Because of his seat on Eames’s lap, he has a good four inches on the other man and his glare only skims the top of the Eames’s head, and is completely ignored. Catching Arthur’s earlobe between his teeth, Eames sucks until Arthur is squirming desperately against him, but it just makes Eames grip those slim hips tighter.
“We’re taking a break.” Eames’s voice is low and silky. “Tell me what you want.” The request is punctuated by a roll of hips that makes Arthur gasp involuntarily.
“I, uh, I couldn’t have been any clearer.” He hates when he stutters, but he’s given up resisting, gripping onto Eames’s broad shoulders and stretching his neck in offering.
“But I want to know more.”
Finally, Eames kisses him, and for a moment, it’s nothing but the press of tender lips. But Arthur can’t help it when he opens his mouth, dying for the taste of tea and weed and Eames, and so it becomes slick and hot and soon they’re both panting into each other’s mouths.
“I want you to take off that disgusting shirt.” The words spill out of Arthur in a rushed whisper. He pulls back from their kiss, eyes guarded, like he’s waiting to be disappointed.
Eames grunts, fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, Arthur not moving a muscle to help. “Fuck it,” Eames mutters, yanking at the flannel. It’s old enough that the threads snap under the pressure and Eames shimmies out of the shirt easily.
Bringing a hand up to rest lightly against Eames’s mouth, Arthur strokes his thumb over the full bottom lip almost reverently.
“Better?” Eames breathes into Arthur’s palm. There is an ache in his chest that tells him that this is how Arthur is supposed to look all the time - like he’s just received an unexpected gift.
“You have no idea,” Arthur growls, all sweetness gone from his face as he attacks Eames’s mouth with his own, sliding his hand to the back of Eames’s neck to hold him in place. It’s frantic, almost desperate, the way Arthur’s tugging at his hair, licking into his mouth, working at the fly of his jeans, and all Eames can do is hold on, groaning as nimble fingers work their way into his boxers.
When Arthur pulls off his own shirt, Eames gets a glimpse of him devastatingly flushed and decides that this is his second favorite expression. Slipping his hands under Arthur’s ass, Eames nudges him upward until Arthur gets the hint, straightening and pressing his knees into the sofa, using Eames’s shoulders for balance as he leans forward. Eames sighs quietly as some of the pressure on his erection eases.
“Tell me more.” Eames’s tongue flicks out to taste the dip in Arthur’s ribcage.
“Fuck, Eames,” Arthur stutters, feeling that lick everywhere. “You know what I want.”
His nipples aren’t particularly sensitive, but it still hurts when Eames bites one sharply.
“Shit!” He’s staring at Eames with something like panic on his face, features tight, but with dark eyes and his chest heaving. “I want you. I want all of you all the fucking time.”
There is no easy way for either of them to get out of their trousers, so it’s a flurry of hands, and wiggling, and not being able to touch. Still, it gives Eames a second to grab the lube he’d snuck in with his paints, and Arthur ends up in his lap again when they’re both naked and Arthur’s clutching a condom.
“Cheeky bastard,” Eames chuckles, running fingers down the cleft of Arthur’s ass and making him shiver. “All the time?”
“Fuck you,” Arthur replies, trying for venom but missing because their cocks are sliding over each other. He wraps a hand around Eames’s and it’s Eames’s turn to gasp. “I was late to calculus two weeks ago because of you.”
“How so?” Eames can barely open the cap of lube one-handed, but he manages, coating his fingers the best he can. His fingertips brush against Arthur’s hole, and he has just enough leverage to slip one in up to the first knuckle.
Letting out a low groan, Arthur pushes back against his hand and Eames adds a second finger. “It was Thursday and I couldn’t stop thinking about everything you said to me, shit…” He trails off as Eames twists his hand, trying to get deeper. “I had to jerk off.”
“Aren’t you a wicked boy,” Eames teases, but his voice is rough with want. He’s forced to pull his fingers out when Arthur tears open the condom, rising on his knees again. They kiss, open mouthed and sloppy, and Eames has to try very hard to be still as slender fingers roll the condom down his cock. His hips slide further down the cushion for a better angle, and there’s a breathless moment where their eyes meet, where he can roll the anticipation around on his tongue and it tastes like Arthur.
He’s expecting it when Arthur sinks down on him, but it still stabs him in the gut, inch by inch, so good it hurts. The rhythm that Arthur sets is a maddeningly slow rise and fall that has them both gasping for air within minutes. Eames fingers clutch reflexively at Arthur’s hips, leaving bruises near the sharp jut of his pelvic bone.
Arthur bends his head and catches Eames in a kiss again. When he pulls his mouth away, Arthur’s eyes are bright.
“If I had known it could be like this, I would’ve had sex years ago.”
Their hips meet again, and it takes Eames a minute to process anything but the heat and the pressure and the closeness of Arthur. But eventually it sinks in and Eames’s control snaps.
“Fuck me, darling.” He’s holding on too tight, and it has to hurt, but Arthur’s pants as Eames slams up into him don’t sound pained in the least. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Eames buries his head in the crook of Arthur’s neck, edges of his vision going white and blurry. When he comes, he can’t help it, he has to sink his teeth into the flesh where neck meets shoulder, and he knows that one does hurt, because Arthur cries out, but then he’s coming too, hot and sticky and messy all over both of them and some on Yusuf’s couch.
They stay wrapped up in each other until the sweat starts drying and it gets cold, and Arthur calls him a slob, rolling off him and padding to the shower. Eventually, they meander into the kitchen, Arthur already dressed in his tee shirt and boxers for bed, watching Eames microwave him some soup.
Arthur eating is an efficient affair; he never overfills his spoon, there are no drips or dribbles, and he rinses out his bowl and Eames’s without a second thought.
“Thank you,” Eames says softly. The sincerity in his eyes makes Arthur blush and he feels more naked than he was minutes ago.
“I suppose I need to sit down again. So you can…” he waves a hand at the canvas, uncomfortable.
Slipping off his stool, Eames casts a critical eye over Arthur’s face. “No, it’s not necessary. I can finish on my own.”
By the time Arthur has his laptop and notes out of his bag, Eames has already slipped in his ear buds and is humming happily to himself, palette in one hand, brush in another. At first he tries to sit on the couch, filling out college applications online, but Arthur can’t shake the embarrassment of watching his body, his face, brought to life from Eames’s memories. When he sighs and drags his work to the bedroom, Eames doesn’t even look up.
-------
He hears voices when he wakes up. His laptop is sitting on the floor where Eames must have set it when he came to bed. Arthur rolls on to his stomach and contemplates sleeping longer, but the banging of kitchen cabinets makes him too curious to try again.
“I thought I made it perfectly clear that I have no desire to go on holiday with you, Robert,” Eames snaps as Arthur shuffles his way down the hall.
“We’ve been planning this for months, Eames! You wouldn’t leave me to face my father alone, would you?”
“Maybe you should have thought about that before you slipped and fell on your econ professor’s cock.”
Chest tight, Arthur steps out of the hall and into Eames’s line of sight. Both men go tense and silent, Eames gripping a mug of tea like he wants to strangle it. Swallowing, he heads for the coffee pot, watching them surreptitiously while he measures out the grounds.
Robert is probably the most beautiful man he’s seen outside of the movies, all broad shoulders and blue eyes. With a sigh, he punches the on button too forcefully, and leaves Eames to argue with his gorgeous ex-whatever. Or he tries to, but he ends up hiding in the bathroom, hating himself but desperate to know more.
Someone clears their throat. “He’s a pretty young thing,” Robert says, emphasis on the young.
“He isn’t anything,” Eames bites out.
Arthur’s stomach clenches the way it does right before he’s about to be sick.
“Whatever you say. You’re entitled to a revenge fuck, I get it. But we were so good together, we can be good together. Come home with me for Christmas.”
Eames’s reply is so low and angry his voice almost breaks. “You are such a prick, Robert. I better be bloody entitled to a revenge fuck. I’m entitled to fuck anyone for any number of reasons, Robert, because we are not together anymore. I don’t have the time or the patience to deal with your fucking daddy issues anymore, Robert, so, no, I won’t be going home with you for Christmas, or any other fucking holiday you suggest.”
There’s the sound of a chair scraping across the floor and the door slamming shut, but Arthur is too busy trying not to vomit to pay any attention. He’s hurriedly pulling on his jeans when Eames finds him.
“I’m sorry you had to hear that, love.”
Ignoring him, Arthur slips on his Converse and grabs his laptop off the floor. As he tries to brush past the older man, a strong hand snakes out and grabs him by the arm.
“Let go of me.”
“Arthur.” The quiet way Eames says his name makes Arthur freeze. “Don’t go. I’m pissed at Robert, not you.”
For a few minutes Arthur can’t do anything but breathe. Finally, he gathers his courage enough to stammer, “This isn’t going to work, Eames. I can’t do this. I can’t be this for you anymore. So please, just let go.”
The grip loosens on his elbow, and Arthur takes off, grabbing his bag and flying out the door.
On to Chapter 5