No Grand Gestures (Chapter 6)
Title: No Grand Gestures (Chapter 6)
Author: Classlicity
Fandom: Inception
Pairings/Characters: Arthur/Eames, Ensemble
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~4000
Warnings: Slight underage
Summary: Seventeen year old Arthur meets fine arts grad-student Eames at a club one night. Arthur learns to talk about his feelings, and Eames learns that sometimes silence is just fine.
Notes: It’s finally done! Big thank yous, as always, to the lovely sobota for being my beta, but mostly my cheerleader. It’s been a very hard year so far and you’ve gotten me through it :)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
“Hey,” Ariadne says, sliding the balcony door shut behind her. She rubs her hands up and down her arms to ward off the sudden February chill. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“Talk away, love,” Eames replies.
They can barely hear the music from the party inside; it’s intentional. Eames definitely doesn’t want to explain the illegal amounts of weed and minors in his apartment if the police show up for a noise complaint. He sucks on his cigarette, wishing, not for the first time, that he hadn’t chosen a grad school where it got so goddamn cold.
“He likes you. Like, a lot. More than likes, maybe, but I’m not going to be the one to tell you that.”
Eames sighs. “You’re a bit nosy, aren’t you?”
He stamps out his cigarette, the ash muddying the snow underneath his boot.
“Yep.” Ariadne simply fixes him with a look very much like one he’d seen on his mother several times.
“What is it you want me to say? That my whole life has been leading up to this moment? That we’re destined to be together?” He chuckles mirthlessly. “That we’re two halves of a whole?”
“You’re a dick sometimes, you know that?” she answers. “Listen, I just wanted you to know that Arthur doesn’t…Arthur does things to show he cares. He won’t tell you that he cares, but he knows what you need and when you need it.”
Eames snorts and lights another cigarette.
Ariadne raises an eyebrow at him. “Like when I was thirteen, and I failed spectacularly at my dance routine in the school talent show. He bought me a rose and some Cherry Garcia. Or tonight. You didn’t buy cups. You never buy cups. And you know how I know that? Arthur told me, in his most exasperated voice while we were scouring the grocery store for fucking cups.”
He had forgotten cups, but Ariadne’s presumptuousness is still grating. They met three weeks ago, at Arthur’s insistence, and it hadn’t taken them long to decide to co-host Arthur’s eighteenth birthday. It is a mutually beneficial decision - Ariadne gets to test out her rebellious phase, and Eames gets free access to Arthur all night.
“I think this is a conversation best suited to the parties in the actual relationship, Ari.” He moves to open the door and go back to the guests.
She stops him with a hand on his forearm, fingers digging in to his muscle harder than is really necessary. “My point is that you’re not likely to ever have this conversation with Arthur. He’s just not like that. He doesn’t express his emotions like the rest of the human race. If you need grand gestures and sweeping declarations of love, you’re going to have to do them yourself.”
Taking a drawn-out drag of his cigarette, Eames pointedly ignores Ariadne until she gives up and goes inside. He takes his time finishing up, letting the frostbite prickle his fingertips.
Inside, Arthur is curled up against the arm of the couch, cheeks rosy from the vodka, eyes a little red and sleepy from pot. Still, he laughs at Mal telling an animated story about the frog she kept as a pet when she was ten. Eames worms his way in next to him, shoving Yusuf a bit in the process.
“Hey,” says Arthur. “You’re freezing.”
Eames buries his cold nose in the crook of Arthur’s neck as a greeting, only pulling back when he can tell Arthur’s smiling wide enough to show his dimples, despite his protests.
“Thanks for bringing cups,” Eames says, throwing his arm around Arthur’s narrow shoulders to drag him even closer.
“You always forget,” Arthur grouses, but he leans his head against Eames’s chest anyway.
“I know, darling, I know.”
------
Eames almost dies a month later.
Or, as Arthur says over the phone, “it’s just a cold, you giant man-baby.”
“I’m dying. Tell my mum I love her and tell Kitty she still can’t have my stereo,” he moans in reply.
“Your stereo’s a piece of shit.”
“She will have to pry it out of my cold dead hands.”
“Jesus Christ, Eames. Take some Nyquil and sleep off the melodrama.”
Eames attempts his posh, self-righteous huff, but he ends up coughing and hacking instead. “Fine,” he finally manages to snuffle, “Will you come put me to bed?”
Arthur hangs up on him, as usual.
-------
The next thing that Eames remembers is the heavy weight of someone sliding into bed next to him. He cracks an eyelid and smiles sleepily at Arthur, sitting against the headboard with a glass of water in one hand and some ibuprofen in the other.
“You came,” Eames croaks.
“I didn’t have a suit to wear to a funeral. So I decided you couldn’t die,” Arthur says. He thrusts the ibuprofen at him, which Eames takes dutifully.
He lays back down, head throbbing from the small movement, nose pressed against Arthur’s hip.
“But you came.”
“I borrowed Ari’s car, but mom said I can only stay until ten. And she wants you to come for dinner when you’re better. And if I give her any of your germs, I’m going to have to wait on her hand and foot.”
Eames just hums in agreement, snuggling closer to the warm press of Arthur’s legs. He drifts off with Arthur’s long fingers carding through his hair.
-------
Arthur’s bed smells like lavender. It takes all of Eames’s willpower to stop himself from pushing Arthur down on the duvet and rutting against him until they both come in their trousers. But the door is open, and Sherri has already walked by twice on one pretense or another. So instead, he concentrates on taking in his surroundings.
He runs a restless finger over the slick, freshly dusted surface of Arthur’s small desk. An old Macbook sits next to a generic IKEA lamp. Tacked to the bulletin board is a calendar with homework assignment due dates written in red sharpie, and a sketch, drawn in the same red sharpie, of a man -- except instead of a face there is only the tell-tale mushroom cloud of a nuclear explosion. He’s wearing a waistcoat, and it makes Eames chuckle.
“What?” Arthur asks, frowning. His eyes dart from Eames to the door and back. He’s slumped in his desk chair, arms crossed tight around his chest.
“I’m guessing that’s Ariadne’s work?” Eames inclines his head toward the drawing.
Arthur runs a hand through his hair, embarrassed. “Yeah. She said it was a portrait of me during midterms.”
“Hey,” Eames reaches over and lightly strokes Arthur’s knee, “look at me. What’s the matter?”
“This is just,” Arthur exhales heavily, finally meeting Eames’s concerned gaze, “kind of weird.”
“I can leave if you want.”
“No, it just doesn’t feel real. You. Being here. In my bed.”
Eames grins and tugs a little at the fabric of Arthur’s jeans. “That’s because you’re not in it with me.”
“You’re a pervert,” Arthur says but he climbs into the bed anyway.
“Takes one to know one.”
Despite Arthur’s sense of propriety, their thighs brush and Eames subtly slips his hands in his pockets so he doesn’t do anything that would get him thrown out. Other than a rushed hand-job in his Mercedes, it’s been almost two months since he’s been able touch Arthur like he wants. They’re having less sex than they were when they weren’t actually dating, and every little thing from the scent of Arthur’s ‘Summer Fresh’ bedclothes, to the loose waves of his hair and especially the black skinny jeans Arthur favors on date nights, reminds Eames of that fact.
Trying to fixate on something else, anything else, Eames scans the room until he rests his gaze on the framed photos on Arthur’s bookshelves. There’s one of what can only be Arthur and Ariadne in elementary school, ice cream cones melting all over their hands. There’s another of an elderly couple he guesses are Arthur’s grandparents, and then one of a slim, black-haired man with a truly spectacular mustache and a toddler on his lap.
“That your dad?” he asks.
Frowning, Arthur nods sharply. “Every time I take that picture down, my mom puts it back up. He’s such an asshole.”
Eames swallows the placations on the tip of his tongue. If he knows anything about Arthur by now, it’s that he already thinks that everything Eames says is bullshit. Instead, he scoots closer and snakes an arm around Arthur’s waist. “I take it you’re not close to your father.”
Arthur snorts. “What gave it away?”
Eames doesn’t say anything, but he does squeeze Arthur little harder than necessary.
“That was bitchy, wasn’t it?”
“A bit, yeah.”
It’s a minute shift in atmosphere, when Arthur breathes out. It’s not even a sigh, but Eames can feel it in the expansion and contraction of Arthur’s diaphragm. He can feel it under his fingertips when Arthur lets go.
“He left us when I was eight. I mean, I get it, I do. You shouldn’t be married to someone you don’t love. But he didn’t even say goodbye, he just packed up and left while I was at school. And he thinks that a check on my birthday and a phone call once a month is fatherhood, and now, now he’s just being a dick about this whole college thing.”
He rests his head on Eames’s broad shoulder, relaxing into the body next to him. A warm glow of contentment flows through Arthur like he’s only felt post-orgasm. He sneaks a glance at Eames’s face, trying not to hope that he feels it too, but he catches Eames staring back at him, eyes soft and fond.
“I’m sorry,” Eames breathes, pressing a dry kiss to his forehead.
There’s a loud knock on the doorframe, and Arthur jerks away like Eames is on fire.
“Dinner’s ready, boys,” Sherri says. She raises her eyebrows when she catches sight of Eames’s hand still resting on Arthur’s hip. “Come on down.”
-------
Eames wears his best ‘meeting the parents’ smile all through dinner, and even eats his cauliflower, despite ranking it seventh on the vegetables he hates list. With his mom there, Arthur is even more reserved, answering questions when he’s asked, but not really contributing to the conversation. Sherri more than makes up for his reticence, peppering Eames with questions about his life, family, and career prospects.
“Arthur is going to be a structural engineer,” Sherri says, passing the pork chops. “That’s like an architect, but with more math. Arthur is already taking calculus. He’s a bit of a savant. Of course, with his grades, he could really do whatever he wants. We’ve already received four acceptance letters!”
Arthur blushes, uncomfortable being the topic of conversation.
“He’s very good at accomplishing whatever he puts his mind to,” Eames agrees.
Scowling, Arthur serves himself and Eames more cauliflower. “I’m right here, you two.”
Sherri ignores him. “And we’re so lucky. Arthur’s father has agreed to pay for Stanford so that they can see each other more often! His dad lives out there, you know.”
“That’s very generous of him,” Eames says, shooting a quick glance at Arthur. Arthur’s slumped in his seat, frowning like it’s his job.
“Mom, I haven’t even decided to go there yet,” he whines.
“What is there to decide, Arthur?” Sherri’s smile disappears so abruptly that Eames could never doubt that the two are related. “It’s the best school of the bunch, you’ll get that fantastic California weather and, most importantly, it’s free.”
She smiles sweetly at Eames. “Don’t you agree, Eames?”
Searching for a diplomatic reply, Eames chews slowly on his cauliflower. “I think Arthur will be successful no matter where he goes. This cauliflower is really lovely, Sherri. My mother never could get it right.”
It’s a cop out, and all parties know it, but at least Sherri has the good grace to let the conversation shift on to the blandness of food and drink in England.
-------
Arthur walks him out to his car after dinner. It’s getting warmer finally, but the sun still sets at six. In the yellow glow of the streetlights, Arthur almost looks sick with stress. Eames unlocks his door, but doesn’t open it, hooking a finger into one of Arthur’s belt loops and hauling him close. Arthur crosses his arms so that his elbows dig into Eames’s chest.
“Why so prickly, love?”
“You don’t have to agree with my mom just make her like you.”
Eames searches Arthur’s hardened expression, but can’t find the answers he wants. “I could use a little more clarification, if you don’t mind.”
“What if I don’t want to go to Stanford? I got in here, too, you know. They’re offering me a partial scholarship.”
Quirking his lips into a smile, Eames tries his best to look innocent. “Forgive me for playing devil’s advocate, but Stanford is a top tier school. Why wouldn’t you want to go there?”
Arthur disentangles himself from Eames’s grip. “I like this place. My life is here. Ari’s staying here. My mom is here.” He looks away, embarrassed. “You’re here.”
“This is a big decision, Arthur. You shouldn’t make it because of me.”
Arthur goes completely still, eyes dark and brow knit. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”
He spins around and strides back to his house.
“Fuck,” Eames sighs into the night air.
-------
They don’t talk about college again. They barely talk at all, because two weeks later, Sherri puts Arthur on lockdown for breaking curfew with Ariadne, and Eames doesn’t quite understand why he’s being punished, or if it’s even Sherri’s idea. And the week that Arthur’s grounding is over, their finals start, because the school districts like to be on the same schedule as the university.
It feels a lot like he’s being cheated on, but with a calculus textbook, which is almost worse than an Econ professor. So when Yusuf invites him to a ‘we’re fucking done, bitches’ party a mutual friend is throwing, Eames says yes without a second thought.
Still, he sends Arthur a text to let him know he’s out for the evening, because they are together now, and that’s what one should do. The text he gets back takes him by surprise.
Can I bring breakfast in the morning? I want to talk to you.
Eames snorts in disbelief, but fires back a quick Sure.
-------
By the time Arthur actually slides the key into Eames’s lock, he’s clutching at the paper bag in his hand so hard it’s already starting to go soggy where his fingers curl around it. He had been given the key for his birthday, and at the time, he thought it was a silly sentimental gesture, and that he’d never really need to use it.
The door is white, with a dented bronze handle that needs a bit of jiggling before it will open, and it has no right to be as daunting as it is. It’s ridiculous, he thinks, that he is intimidated by opening the door to his boyfriend’s apartment, so he squares his shoulders and pushes his way in.
“I brought breakfast,” he calls to the deserted living room. “Bagels. Cinnamon raisin, plain, and cheese.”
He can hear the shower running, so he drops the bag on the counter and turns to mess with the coffee maker.
“You brought breakfast? Thanks, man,” someone says from behind him.
The man’s voice is familiar and makes his gut clench with memory. Arthur swallows, turning back around.
Robert Fischer is rooting through the bagels, wearing nothing but a pair of red boxers, his perfect blue eyes still a little sleepy.
“Yeah, no problem,” Arthur stutters.
Finally satisfied with his selection, Robert rummages through a drawer for a butter knife. Arthur almost starts hyperventilating when he realizes that Robert picked the correct drawer on his first try, like he lives there. He feels like he’s rubbernecking at a car wreck, unable to tear his eyes away because of some deep seated need to internalize every terrible thing he sees.
Scooping an obscene amount of cream cheese from the tub, Robert spreads it with a single-minded focus, not paying an iota of attention to his surroundings. Eventually, he glances up, bagel paused half-way to his mouth, and asks, “Don’t I know you from somewhere? Stats, maybe?”
The question is like a lightning bolt, jolting him into action. “No,” Arthur says. “I’ve got to go.”
He doesn’t even grab his messenger bag; his feet just carry him to the door, and then through it, and then he’s flying down the stairs and by the time he hits the sidewalk, he’s running flat out, blinking hard so that he doesn’t start crying.
-------
Rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, Eames does his best to massage out the crick he got from sleeping on Yusuf’s too squishy pillow. Steam lingers in the bathroom from his shower, and he breathes it in, feeling cleaner and calmer than he has in days, like everything is new and fresh again. Slipping on a worn tee-shirt and some ratty sweatpants, he reluctantly steps out of his cocoon of heat and positivity, making his way into the kitchen.
He takes one look at Robert and the bagels and swears loudly.
-------
“He won’t answer his phone, Ari,” Eames pleads. “Has he called you at all?”
“What? No. Why?” asks the muffled voice on the other end of the line.
Eames stays silent.
“Eames, what happened?”
Sighing into the phone, Eames says, “If he does call you, would you call me? He just took off, and I have no idea where he could be if he’s not with you.”
“He likes to wander around campus sometimes, now that it’s warmer,” Ariadne replies after a moment. “Eames, tell me what’s wrong.”
“Thanks, love.” Eames hangs up without even acknowledging her question, slips on a beat up pair of sneakers and sprints out the door.
--------
There’s a fountain in the middle of campus between the humanities building and the engineering department. Arthur’s sitting on the edge of it, knocking the back of his Converse against the rough beige stone. He’s watching the water like he’s hypnotized by it, and Eames knows that faraway expression by now. It’s the one he wears when he’s rebuilding his walls and Eames will have to spend two weeks coaxing them back down.
Taking a deep breath, he jogs up to the fountain and takes a seat next to Arthur. “Hey.”
Arthur’s gaze flicks over him briefly before fixating on the bubbling fountains again. “You could have just told me.”
“Told you what?” Eames resists the urge to stroke his thumb over Arthur’s kneecap.
“That you wanted to get back together with Robert. I would’ve left you alone. I wouldn’t go all creepy-stalker like some teenagers do.”
“Oh, darling.” There’s not much Eames can do to stop the laughter from bursting out. “Robert is an arse, and got absolutely pissed at the party last night, and I wasn’t going to let him make more of a fool of himself, so I brought him back to the flat.” He does run his hand over Arthur’s knee then and counts it as a win when Arthur doesn’t flinch away. “Hey, look at me.”
Arthur is worrying his bottom lip when he finally meets Eames’s eyes.
“I slept with Yusuf last night. Trust me, he will complain at length to you, if you ask.”
Squeezing his eyes shut, Arthur nods. Eames leans forward and presses a dry kiss to his cheek.
“Thank you for breakfast.” He kisses the corner of Arthur’s mouth right where his dimple shows when he smiles. “Please, talk to me.”
“It’s not important,” Arthur mumbles. “I’m sorry I ran away again. I’m trying not to, but then I saw him sitting there…”
“Arthur, I don’t want to talk about Robert,” Eames interrupts. “What did you want to tell me?”
Running his hands over his thighs nervously, Arthur’s fingers hesitantly brush against Eames’ hand where it’s still resting on his knee. “I talked about it with my mom and my dad, too,” Arthur steels himself, expression determined, “And yesterday I sent in my paperwork for my financial aid.”
“But I thought your father was going to pay for Stanford,” Eames says, frowning.
“I’m not going to Stanford,” Arthur says. “I’m staying here. And before you say anything, I made a list of pros and cons, and it was very thorough.”
He’s so earnest that when Eames breaks into a wide grin, Arthur scowls in return.
“I’m sure it was the pinnacle of list making. I’m sure it was the list that all other lists strive to be.”
“Now who’s the condescending ass? I do have to go spend the summer with my dad, though, as a compromise. I fly out next week, and I won’t be back until right before school starts.” He wrinkles his nose in distaste. “We’re going to camp. And bond or some shit.”
Their eyes meet and Arthur is suddenly serious again. “It’s a long time to go without seeing each other, so I understand if you don’t want to wait around for me.”
Eames grabs his hand, standing swiftly and pulling Arthur up with him. “I think you should see something,” Eames says, twining their fingers together and tugging him down the wide path towards the Fine Arts building.
---------
The small structure at the back of the Fine Arts building is used by the grad students as their studio. It’s little more than a shack, and when Eames lets them in with his key, Arthur is overwhelmed by the stale scent of turpentine and sweat.
“Welcome to my second home,” Eames says, leading them back to his personal workspace.
His ‘studio’ is literally in the corner of the building, with a third wall added by way of a grey partition more commonly seen in cubicles. Still, it takes Arthur’s breath away, because every inch of available space is covered in Eames’s work - oils on canvas, a few watercolors, some stunningly accurate copies of old masters, rough figure studies done in charcoal.
Eames leaves Arthur to gape awkwardly while he squats beside a stack of canvases leaned against the wall and begins rifling through them.
A near perfect replica of Van Gogh’s self portrait catches Arthur’s eye, dragging him closer until he’s reaching out to run a thumb over the signature that gives it away as a fake. “These are really, really good,” he breathes.
“Thank you. I do try.” Eames’s voice is loud and right behind him, making Arthur whip around, embarrassed.
Arthur opens his mouth to make a snippy remark, but he ends up staring at the painting in Eames’s hands instead. His own face stares back at him.
Except, it’s not really a stare; Arthur-in-the-painting is marveling at him, eyes soft and mouth slightly parted. Arthur-in-the-painting is enthralled.
He doesn’t even realize he’s taken it from Eames until he feels strong arms circling his waist and the jut of Eames’s chin digging into his shoulder.
“You’ve known this whole time,” he whispers.
Pressing a kiss into the crook of Arthur’s neck, Eames murmurs, “Look past that.”
So Arthur tries, eyes roving over the nondescript navy of the background and across the collar of the button-down he was wearing. It’s so well rendered that Arthur can almost feel the starch against his neck. His throat, his jaw, his mouth, his eyes -- they have all been treated with the same painstaking attention to detail. He can even make out individual eyelashes.
“Oh,” he says.
He feels Eames’s chuckle ghost across his skin. Stubble scrapes at the shell of his ear, making him shiver.
“Yeah,” Eames whispers.
“Can we go home now?” Arthur whispers back, still slightly off kilter.
“Of course.” Eames curls his fingers around Arthur’s hips possessively. “Will you allow me to celebrate our newfound knowledge by pressing you softly into my sheets and…”
“Eames,” Arthur interrupts. “If the next words out of your mouth weren’t ‘fucking you’ you can consider us broken up.”
Laughing, Eames nips at the back of his neck. “And fucking you?”
Wriggling out of Eames grip, Arthur sets the painting down gingerly. He looks over his shoulder, smile wide enough to make his dimples show.
“Mr. Eames, I’m counting on it.”
Author: Classlicity
Fandom: Inception
Pairings/Characters: Arthur/Eames, Ensemble
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~4000
Warnings: Slight underage
Summary: Seventeen year old Arthur meets fine arts grad-student Eames at a club one night. Arthur learns to talk about his feelings, and Eames learns that sometimes silence is just fine.
Notes: It’s finally done! Big thank yous, as always, to the lovely sobota for being my beta, but mostly my cheerleader. It’s been a very hard year so far and you’ve gotten me through it :)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
“Hey,” Ariadne says, sliding the balcony door shut behind her. She rubs her hands up and down her arms to ward off the sudden February chill. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“Talk away, love,” Eames replies.
They can barely hear the music from the party inside; it’s intentional. Eames definitely doesn’t want to explain the illegal amounts of weed and minors in his apartment if the police show up for a noise complaint. He sucks on his cigarette, wishing, not for the first time, that he hadn’t chosen a grad school where it got so goddamn cold.
“He likes you. Like, a lot. More than likes, maybe, but I’m not going to be the one to tell you that.”
Eames sighs. “You’re a bit nosy, aren’t you?”
He stamps out his cigarette, the ash muddying the snow underneath his boot.
“Yep.” Ariadne simply fixes him with a look very much like one he’d seen on his mother several times.
“What is it you want me to say? That my whole life has been leading up to this moment? That we’re destined to be together?” He chuckles mirthlessly. “That we’re two halves of a whole?”
“You’re a dick sometimes, you know that?” she answers. “Listen, I just wanted you to know that Arthur doesn’t…Arthur does things to show he cares. He won’t tell you that he cares, but he knows what you need and when you need it.”
Eames snorts and lights another cigarette.
Ariadne raises an eyebrow at him. “Like when I was thirteen, and I failed spectacularly at my dance routine in the school talent show. He bought me a rose and some Cherry Garcia. Or tonight. You didn’t buy cups. You never buy cups. And you know how I know that? Arthur told me, in his most exasperated voice while we were scouring the grocery store for fucking cups.”
He had forgotten cups, but Ariadne’s presumptuousness is still grating. They met three weeks ago, at Arthur’s insistence, and it hadn’t taken them long to decide to co-host Arthur’s eighteenth birthday. It is a mutually beneficial decision - Ariadne gets to test out her rebellious phase, and Eames gets free access to Arthur all night.
“I think this is a conversation best suited to the parties in the actual relationship, Ari.” He moves to open the door and go back to the guests.
She stops him with a hand on his forearm, fingers digging in to his muscle harder than is really necessary. “My point is that you’re not likely to ever have this conversation with Arthur. He’s just not like that. He doesn’t express his emotions like the rest of the human race. If you need grand gestures and sweeping declarations of love, you’re going to have to do them yourself.”
Taking a drawn-out drag of his cigarette, Eames pointedly ignores Ariadne until she gives up and goes inside. He takes his time finishing up, letting the frostbite prickle his fingertips.
Inside, Arthur is curled up against the arm of the couch, cheeks rosy from the vodka, eyes a little red and sleepy from pot. Still, he laughs at Mal telling an animated story about the frog she kept as a pet when she was ten. Eames worms his way in next to him, shoving Yusuf a bit in the process.
“Hey,” says Arthur. “You’re freezing.”
Eames buries his cold nose in the crook of Arthur’s neck as a greeting, only pulling back when he can tell Arthur’s smiling wide enough to show his dimples, despite his protests.
“Thanks for bringing cups,” Eames says, throwing his arm around Arthur’s narrow shoulders to drag him even closer.
“You always forget,” Arthur grouses, but he leans his head against Eames’s chest anyway.
“I know, darling, I know.”
------
Eames almost dies a month later.
Or, as Arthur says over the phone, “it’s just a cold, you giant man-baby.”
“I’m dying. Tell my mum I love her and tell Kitty she still can’t have my stereo,” he moans in reply.
“Your stereo’s a piece of shit.”
“She will have to pry it out of my cold dead hands.”
“Jesus Christ, Eames. Take some Nyquil and sleep off the melodrama.”
Eames attempts his posh, self-righteous huff, but he ends up coughing and hacking instead. “Fine,” he finally manages to snuffle, “Will you come put me to bed?”
Arthur hangs up on him, as usual.
-------
The next thing that Eames remembers is the heavy weight of someone sliding into bed next to him. He cracks an eyelid and smiles sleepily at Arthur, sitting against the headboard with a glass of water in one hand and some ibuprofen in the other.
“You came,” Eames croaks.
“I didn’t have a suit to wear to a funeral. So I decided you couldn’t die,” Arthur says. He thrusts the ibuprofen at him, which Eames takes dutifully.
He lays back down, head throbbing from the small movement, nose pressed against Arthur’s hip.
“But you came.”
“I borrowed Ari’s car, but mom said I can only stay until ten. And she wants you to come for dinner when you’re better. And if I give her any of your germs, I’m going to have to wait on her hand and foot.”
Eames just hums in agreement, snuggling closer to the warm press of Arthur’s legs. He drifts off with Arthur’s long fingers carding through his hair.
-------
Arthur’s bed smells like lavender. It takes all of Eames’s willpower to stop himself from pushing Arthur down on the duvet and rutting against him until they both come in their trousers. But the door is open, and Sherri has already walked by twice on one pretense or another. So instead, he concentrates on taking in his surroundings.
He runs a restless finger over the slick, freshly dusted surface of Arthur’s small desk. An old Macbook sits next to a generic IKEA lamp. Tacked to the bulletin board is a calendar with homework assignment due dates written in red sharpie, and a sketch, drawn in the same red sharpie, of a man -- except instead of a face there is only the tell-tale mushroom cloud of a nuclear explosion. He’s wearing a waistcoat, and it makes Eames chuckle.
“What?” Arthur asks, frowning. His eyes dart from Eames to the door and back. He’s slumped in his desk chair, arms crossed tight around his chest.
“I’m guessing that’s Ariadne’s work?” Eames inclines his head toward the drawing.
Arthur runs a hand through his hair, embarrassed. “Yeah. She said it was a portrait of me during midterms.”
“Hey,” Eames reaches over and lightly strokes Arthur’s knee, “look at me. What’s the matter?”
“This is just,” Arthur exhales heavily, finally meeting Eames’s concerned gaze, “kind of weird.”
“I can leave if you want.”
“No, it just doesn’t feel real. You. Being here. In my bed.”
Eames grins and tugs a little at the fabric of Arthur’s jeans. “That’s because you’re not in it with me.”
“You’re a pervert,” Arthur says but he climbs into the bed anyway.
“Takes one to know one.”
Despite Arthur’s sense of propriety, their thighs brush and Eames subtly slips his hands in his pockets so he doesn’t do anything that would get him thrown out. Other than a rushed hand-job in his Mercedes, it’s been almost two months since he’s been able touch Arthur like he wants. They’re having less sex than they were when they weren’t actually dating, and every little thing from the scent of Arthur’s ‘Summer Fresh’ bedclothes, to the loose waves of his hair and especially the black skinny jeans Arthur favors on date nights, reminds Eames of that fact.
Trying to fixate on something else, anything else, Eames scans the room until he rests his gaze on the framed photos on Arthur’s bookshelves. There’s one of what can only be Arthur and Ariadne in elementary school, ice cream cones melting all over their hands. There’s another of an elderly couple he guesses are Arthur’s grandparents, and then one of a slim, black-haired man with a truly spectacular mustache and a toddler on his lap.
“That your dad?” he asks.
Frowning, Arthur nods sharply. “Every time I take that picture down, my mom puts it back up. He’s such an asshole.”
Eames swallows the placations on the tip of his tongue. If he knows anything about Arthur by now, it’s that he already thinks that everything Eames says is bullshit. Instead, he scoots closer and snakes an arm around Arthur’s waist. “I take it you’re not close to your father.”
Arthur snorts. “What gave it away?”
Eames doesn’t say anything, but he does squeeze Arthur little harder than necessary.
“That was bitchy, wasn’t it?”
“A bit, yeah.”
It’s a minute shift in atmosphere, when Arthur breathes out. It’s not even a sigh, but Eames can feel it in the expansion and contraction of Arthur’s diaphragm. He can feel it under his fingertips when Arthur lets go.
“He left us when I was eight. I mean, I get it, I do. You shouldn’t be married to someone you don’t love. But he didn’t even say goodbye, he just packed up and left while I was at school. And he thinks that a check on my birthday and a phone call once a month is fatherhood, and now, now he’s just being a dick about this whole college thing.”
He rests his head on Eames’s broad shoulder, relaxing into the body next to him. A warm glow of contentment flows through Arthur like he’s only felt post-orgasm. He sneaks a glance at Eames’s face, trying not to hope that he feels it too, but he catches Eames staring back at him, eyes soft and fond.
“I’m sorry,” Eames breathes, pressing a dry kiss to his forehead.
There’s a loud knock on the doorframe, and Arthur jerks away like Eames is on fire.
“Dinner’s ready, boys,” Sherri says. She raises her eyebrows when she catches sight of Eames’s hand still resting on Arthur’s hip. “Come on down.”
-------
Eames wears his best ‘meeting the parents’ smile all through dinner, and even eats his cauliflower, despite ranking it seventh on the vegetables he hates list. With his mom there, Arthur is even more reserved, answering questions when he’s asked, but not really contributing to the conversation. Sherri more than makes up for his reticence, peppering Eames with questions about his life, family, and career prospects.
“Arthur is going to be a structural engineer,” Sherri says, passing the pork chops. “That’s like an architect, but with more math. Arthur is already taking calculus. He’s a bit of a savant. Of course, with his grades, he could really do whatever he wants. We’ve already received four acceptance letters!”
Arthur blushes, uncomfortable being the topic of conversation.
“He’s very good at accomplishing whatever he puts his mind to,” Eames agrees.
Scowling, Arthur serves himself and Eames more cauliflower. “I’m right here, you two.”
Sherri ignores him. “And we’re so lucky. Arthur’s father has agreed to pay for Stanford so that they can see each other more often! His dad lives out there, you know.”
“That’s very generous of him,” Eames says, shooting a quick glance at Arthur. Arthur’s slumped in his seat, frowning like it’s his job.
“Mom, I haven’t even decided to go there yet,” he whines.
“What is there to decide, Arthur?” Sherri’s smile disappears so abruptly that Eames could never doubt that the two are related. “It’s the best school of the bunch, you’ll get that fantastic California weather and, most importantly, it’s free.”
She smiles sweetly at Eames. “Don’t you agree, Eames?”
Searching for a diplomatic reply, Eames chews slowly on his cauliflower. “I think Arthur will be successful no matter where he goes. This cauliflower is really lovely, Sherri. My mother never could get it right.”
It’s a cop out, and all parties know it, but at least Sherri has the good grace to let the conversation shift on to the blandness of food and drink in England.
-------
Arthur walks him out to his car after dinner. It’s getting warmer finally, but the sun still sets at six. In the yellow glow of the streetlights, Arthur almost looks sick with stress. Eames unlocks his door, but doesn’t open it, hooking a finger into one of Arthur’s belt loops and hauling him close. Arthur crosses his arms so that his elbows dig into Eames’s chest.
“Why so prickly, love?”
“You don’t have to agree with my mom just make her like you.”
Eames searches Arthur’s hardened expression, but can’t find the answers he wants. “I could use a little more clarification, if you don’t mind.”
“What if I don’t want to go to Stanford? I got in here, too, you know. They’re offering me a partial scholarship.”
Quirking his lips into a smile, Eames tries his best to look innocent. “Forgive me for playing devil’s advocate, but Stanford is a top tier school. Why wouldn’t you want to go there?”
Arthur disentangles himself from Eames’s grip. “I like this place. My life is here. Ari’s staying here. My mom is here.” He looks away, embarrassed. “You’re here.”
“This is a big decision, Arthur. You shouldn’t make it because of me.”
Arthur goes completely still, eyes dark and brow knit. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”
He spins around and strides back to his house.
“Fuck,” Eames sighs into the night air.
-------
They don’t talk about college again. They barely talk at all, because two weeks later, Sherri puts Arthur on lockdown for breaking curfew with Ariadne, and Eames doesn’t quite understand why he’s being punished, or if it’s even Sherri’s idea. And the week that Arthur’s grounding is over, their finals start, because the school districts like to be on the same schedule as the university.
It feels a lot like he’s being cheated on, but with a calculus textbook, which is almost worse than an Econ professor. So when Yusuf invites him to a ‘we’re fucking done, bitches’ party a mutual friend is throwing, Eames says yes without a second thought.
Still, he sends Arthur a text to let him know he’s out for the evening, because they are together now, and that’s what one should do. The text he gets back takes him by surprise.
Can I bring breakfast in the morning? I want to talk to you.
Eames snorts in disbelief, but fires back a quick Sure.
-------
By the time Arthur actually slides the key into Eames’s lock, he’s clutching at the paper bag in his hand so hard it’s already starting to go soggy where his fingers curl around it. He had been given the key for his birthday, and at the time, he thought it was a silly sentimental gesture, and that he’d never really need to use it.
The door is white, with a dented bronze handle that needs a bit of jiggling before it will open, and it has no right to be as daunting as it is. It’s ridiculous, he thinks, that he is intimidated by opening the door to his boyfriend’s apartment, so he squares his shoulders and pushes his way in.
“I brought breakfast,” he calls to the deserted living room. “Bagels. Cinnamon raisin, plain, and cheese.”
He can hear the shower running, so he drops the bag on the counter and turns to mess with the coffee maker.
“You brought breakfast? Thanks, man,” someone says from behind him.
The man’s voice is familiar and makes his gut clench with memory. Arthur swallows, turning back around.
Robert Fischer is rooting through the bagels, wearing nothing but a pair of red boxers, his perfect blue eyes still a little sleepy.
“Yeah, no problem,” Arthur stutters.
Finally satisfied with his selection, Robert rummages through a drawer for a butter knife. Arthur almost starts hyperventilating when he realizes that Robert picked the correct drawer on his first try, like he lives there. He feels like he’s rubbernecking at a car wreck, unable to tear his eyes away because of some deep seated need to internalize every terrible thing he sees.
Scooping an obscene amount of cream cheese from the tub, Robert spreads it with a single-minded focus, not paying an iota of attention to his surroundings. Eventually, he glances up, bagel paused half-way to his mouth, and asks, “Don’t I know you from somewhere? Stats, maybe?”
The question is like a lightning bolt, jolting him into action. “No,” Arthur says. “I’ve got to go.”
He doesn’t even grab his messenger bag; his feet just carry him to the door, and then through it, and then he’s flying down the stairs and by the time he hits the sidewalk, he’s running flat out, blinking hard so that he doesn’t start crying.
-------
Rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, Eames does his best to massage out the crick he got from sleeping on Yusuf’s too squishy pillow. Steam lingers in the bathroom from his shower, and he breathes it in, feeling cleaner and calmer than he has in days, like everything is new and fresh again. Slipping on a worn tee-shirt and some ratty sweatpants, he reluctantly steps out of his cocoon of heat and positivity, making his way into the kitchen.
He takes one look at Robert and the bagels and swears loudly.
-------
“He won’t answer his phone, Ari,” Eames pleads. “Has he called you at all?”
“What? No. Why?” asks the muffled voice on the other end of the line.
Eames stays silent.
“Eames, what happened?”
Sighing into the phone, Eames says, “If he does call you, would you call me? He just took off, and I have no idea where he could be if he’s not with you.”
“He likes to wander around campus sometimes, now that it’s warmer,” Ariadne replies after a moment. “Eames, tell me what’s wrong.”
“Thanks, love.” Eames hangs up without even acknowledging her question, slips on a beat up pair of sneakers and sprints out the door.
--------
There’s a fountain in the middle of campus between the humanities building and the engineering department. Arthur’s sitting on the edge of it, knocking the back of his Converse against the rough beige stone. He’s watching the water like he’s hypnotized by it, and Eames knows that faraway expression by now. It’s the one he wears when he’s rebuilding his walls and Eames will have to spend two weeks coaxing them back down.
Taking a deep breath, he jogs up to the fountain and takes a seat next to Arthur. “Hey.”
Arthur’s gaze flicks over him briefly before fixating on the bubbling fountains again. “You could have just told me.”
“Told you what?” Eames resists the urge to stroke his thumb over Arthur’s kneecap.
“That you wanted to get back together with Robert. I would’ve left you alone. I wouldn’t go all creepy-stalker like some teenagers do.”
“Oh, darling.” There’s not much Eames can do to stop the laughter from bursting out. “Robert is an arse, and got absolutely pissed at the party last night, and I wasn’t going to let him make more of a fool of himself, so I brought him back to the flat.” He does run his hand over Arthur’s knee then and counts it as a win when Arthur doesn’t flinch away. “Hey, look at me.”
Arthur is worrying his bottom lip when he finally meets Eames’s eyes.
“I slept with Yusuf last night. Trust me, he will complain at length to you, if you ask.”
Squeezing his eyes shut, Arthur nods. Eames leans forward and presses a dry kiss to his cheek.
“Thank you for breakfast.” He kisses the corner of Arthur’s mouth right where his dimple shows when he smiles. “Please, talk to me.”
“It’s not important,” Arthur mumbles. “I’m sorry I ran away again. I’m trying not to, but then I saw him sitting there…”
“Arthur, I don’t want to talk about Robert,” Eames interrupts. “What did you want to tell me?”
Running his hands over his thighs nervously, Arthur’s fingers hesitantly brush against Eames’ hand where it’s still resting on his knee. “I talked about it with my mom and my dad, too,” Arthur steels himself, expression determined, “And yesterday I sent in my paperwork for my financial aid.”
“But I thought your father was going to pay for Stanford,” Eames says, frowning.
“I’m not going to Stanford,” Arthur says. “I’m staying here. And before you say anything, I made a list of pros and cons, and it was very thorough.”
He’s so earnest that when Eames breaks into a wide grin, Arthur scowls in return.
“I’m sure it was the pinnacle of list making. I’m sure it was the list that all other lists strive to be.”
“Now who’s the condescending ass? I do have to go spend the summer with my dad, though, as a compromise. I fly out next week, and I won’t be back until right before school starts.” He wrinkles his nose in distaste. “We’re going to camp. And bond or some shit.”
Their eyes meet and Arthur is suddenly serious again. “It’s a long time to go without seeing each other, so I understand if you don’t want to wait around for me.”
Eames grabs his hand, standing swiftly and pulling Arthur up with him. “I think you should see something,” Eames says, twining their fingers together and tugging him down the wide path towards the Fine Arts building.
---------
The small structure at the back of the Fine Arts building is used by the grad students as their studio. It’s little more than a shack, and when Eames lets them in with his key, Arthur is overwhelmed by the stale scent of turpentine and sweat.
“Welcome to my second home,” Eames says, leading them back to his personal workspace.
His ‘studio’ is literally in the corner of the building, with a third wall added by way of a grey partition more commonly seen in cubicles. Still, it takes Arthur’s breath away, because every inch of available space is covered in Eames’s work - oils on canvas, a few watercolors, some stunningly accurate copies of old masters, rough figure studies done in charcoal.
Eames leaves Arthur to gape awkwardly while he squats beside a stack of canvases leaned against the wall and begins rifling through them.
A near perfect replica of Van Gogh’s self portrait catches Arthur’s eye, dragging him closer until he’s reaching out to run a thumb over the signature that gives it away as a fake. “These are really, really good,” he breathes.
“Thank you. I do try.” Eames’s voice is loud and right behind him, making Arthur whip around, embarrassed.
Arthur opens his mouth to make a snippy remark, but he ends up staring at the painting in Eames’s hands instead. His own face stares back at him.
Except, it’s not really a stare; Arthur-in-the-painting is marveling at him, eyes soft and mouth slightly parted. Arthur-in-the-painting is enthralled.
He doesn’t even realize he’s taken it from Eames until he feels strong arms circling his waist and the jut of Eames’s chin digging into his shoulder.
“You’ve known this whole time,” he whispers.
Pressing a kiss into the crook of Arthur’s neck, Eames murmurs, “Look past that.”
So Arthur tries, eyes roving over the nondescript navy of the background and across the collar of the button-down he was wearing. It’s so well rendered that Arthur can almost feel the starch against his neck. His throat, his jaw, his mouth, his eyes -- they have all been treated with the same painstaking attention to detail. He can even make out individual eyelashes.
“Oh,” he says.
He feels Eames’s chuckle ghost across his skin. Stubble scrapes at the shell of his ear, making him shiver.
“Yeah,” Eames whispers.
“Can we go home now?” Arthur whispers back, still slightly off kilter.
“Of course.” Eames curls his fingers around Arthur’s hips possessively. “Will you allow me to celebrate our newfound knowledge by pressing you softly into my sheets and…”
“Eames,” Arthur interrupts. “If the next words out of your mouth weren’t ‘fucking you’ you can consider us broken up.”
Laughing, Eames nips at the back of his neck. “And fucking you?”
Wriggling out of Eames grip, Arthur sets the painting down gingerly. He looks over his shoulder, smile wide enough to make his dimples show.
“Mr. Eames, I’m counting on it.”