The Running Play, pt. 5B
Okayso. This has taken me FOREVERRRRR. I KNOW. It's just that I got so irrationally frustrated with my writing, like, jeez, Whisky, why you gotta write about these heavy-hitting issues all the time? Why can't you write fluff like a normal person? And then I started writing Leverage, to take a break from The Running Play, and that was even angstier! And now I'm working like a billion hours a week, six days a week, so I barely even have time to write as it is! And when I am home, I'm trying to be a good mom and play with my new ratbabies, who are going through this toddler phase wherein all they want to do is chew on my hands and sit on my keyboard and try to pry the keys up, and MY LIFE IS SO NOT CONDUCIVE TO WRITING RIGHT NOW. Also I just bought Pokemon Black, so that hardly helps.
Anyway what I'm trying to say is I FINISHED THIS STORY, and I think you guys are awesome for bearing with me, because I would be throwing rocks at me right now, if I was you guys. Maybe in future I'll try to have shit finished before I start posting it? Although then updates could take months? idk you guys idk :'C Anyway, as always, thank you dearly for the comments, they feed my soul and keep me going, and I hope the ending is to your satisfaction. <3
ps. This part is like, ~8400 words. Whaaaat.
previous part
+++
Arthur watches as Eames sprints out of the locker room, back to his game, and as soon as he's gone and Arthur is alone, he drops onto a bench and buries his face in his hands.
Don't cry, he tells himself furiously, but a tear slips out anyway and it feels steaming hot on his face, and swallowing around the knot in his throat is painful. He's just had the nastiest revelation of his life, and he hates how it feels.
He cannot be with Eames anymore.
He cannot be with Eames because Arthur is a selfish fuck and Eames will always put him first, and Arthur will ruin everything for him like he nearly did today. He can't believe how close Eames came to outing himself. After all that stress, all that terror over what Robert might do, and in the end it was almost Eames who outed himself. For Arthur.
Who does that? How can anyone be that selfless? Eames just nearly destroyed his own career and he'd have done it for Arthur, and that scares the shit out of Arthur, makes him grit his teeth and shake with suppressed sobs. Nobody's ever done something like that for him, and that's terrifying.
So he can't be with Eames. If he's with Eames, this will happen again. Eames might survive this game, but there'll be another time when this happens, when people come close to sniffing them out, maybe next season, maybe two years from now when Eames is a free agent or playing for the league, and of course Eames will forget about the consequences and affirm everything, just because he loves Arthur, because he's so good like that.
And Arthur, he feels like someone's just dumped cold water all over him. All this week he's been fighting to stop Robert -- why? To save Eames' career? Or because he wants to be with Eames, because he loves Eames' attention, and just couldn't stand that hurt and anger in Eames' eyes when he looked at Arthur?
Because he's selfish and Eames is right and it's about time he grows up, that's why.
And that's why, as soon as this game is over, he has to dump Eames for good. To keep him safe, and because Eames loves him too much to ever break it off himself, no matter how Arthur jeopardizes him.
But for now Arthur just wants to sit here alone, for awhile, and soak up the last few minutes wherein he can still call himself Eames' boyfriend. He doesn't go back out. If he does, he knows Eames will look for him before every play, and that'll be too hard to face, knowing he's about to let Eames down so bitterly.
He's calm, settled almost into a state of cold numbness, when the door swings open and Gordon stomps in, holding his arm against his chest and scowling. His wrist is badly swollen by now.
Arthur jumps up instinctively, but he's in the corner and Gordon's standing between either exit. Noticing Arthur, he stops, and they face off warily for a moment.
“If you touch me I'll break your whole arm,” Arthur says at last.
“Only need one to snap your fucking neck,” Gordon grunts.
You're an idiot, a little voice sings in the back of Arthur's head. Standing up to his most hated tormentor had felt so good. Now he's cursing himself for being so stupid. Why did he have to fracture Gordon's wrist? Why couldn't he have just broken his hold and backed off?
Gordon advances. Wildly, Arthur runs over jujutsu moves in his mind.
“You think you're funny?” Gordon asks. “Pulling a stunt like that in front of all the guys?”
“I warned you,” Arthur says quietly, pulse pounding in his ears. Distantly, he can hear the noise of the crowd in the stadium. There are thousands of people out there and none of them know he's in here.
Gordon swipes suddenly. Arthur knocks his arm aside and backs away. Stupid, he thinks. He could have grabbed Gordon's arm and sent him crashing into the lockers, he could have done anything, he could have--
With a snarl, Gordon lunges at him. He's too big to avoid; Arthur doesn't manage to move in time and when Gordon slams into him, the backs of his legs hit the bench and he's sent tumbling backwards. His head hits the lockers hard, his tailbone hits the ground harder. He arches, groaning through his teeth, planting his hands against the lockers to try and push himself upright. Gordon's huge fist snatches him, knotting in his shirt, before he can rise halfway; hauls him to his feet and slams him up against the lockers.
“I'm gonna fuck you up so hard you won't sit for a week,” he growls, leaning down close to Arthur's face.
No, Arthur thinks, angry and sore and too old to put up with this shit now, but something keeps him from saying it aloud. It's something in Gordon's face, something in the way he's looking at Arthur. There's so much contempt, and disgust, and Arthur isn't as good at this, reading people like this, as Eames is, but for the first time he has to wonder how anyone can possibly hate him this much, just for the crime of being ... of being...
“Oh, my God,” Arthur says. “You're gay.”
Gordon punches him. He's only got the one good arm, so he has to let go of Arthur to do it, and Arthur manages to slip aside, almost; and it's his left hand, so it's not as hard as it could have been, but it knocks Arthur to the floor all the same. He hits the ground and scrambles to his feet, stunned.
“That's why you hate me,” he says. His mouth seems to be running away from him now and he laughs harshly. “You hate me because deep down, you're even more of a fag than I am.”
“I hate you because you're fucking smartass queer who doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut,” Gordon snaps, but he looks even more furious than before. He's shaking now.
He swipes again and Arthur ducks. He doesn't pity Gordon. If he stops moving, if he loses this fight -- he can't even think about it, it sounds almost laughably dramatic in his mind, but it's no less real a threat, not with Gordon standing right in front of him and still blocking the exits. He already knows this guy does not harbour any deep-seated love or attraction for him. Gordon wants to destroy him because Arthur personifies that which he hates about himself.
Gordon swings while Arthur is running over these possibilities in his head, and he hits the locker again. Gordon's hand closes over his wrist but he lets go as soon as Arthur twists to break his hold, obviously not wanting to risk a second injury. So he swipes again, furiously, and Arthur catches his hand. This time Gordon locks his hand around Arthur's as though he's going to help pull him upright, and Arthur's not sure how to break that. He struggles, panting, and startles himself with the words that fall out of his mouth, because he means them:
“I won't tell anyone.”
“No you won't, 'cause you're gonna be drinking your meals with a straw when I'm through with you,” Gordon hisses, leaning down close again. He starts to wrench away and Gordon squeezes, and Arthur feels more than hears the pop in his hand.
He has a second to think, dazedly, that Gordon, too, knows joint locks.
And then: a flood of pain and nausea. His strangled, hastily-stifled shout makes Gordon release him and back away more out of surprise than anything. Arthur cradles his hand to his chest immediately, and the sight of his thumb makes him feel faint. It's bent at a stiff, unnatural angle, jutting away from the rest of his fingers in a way thumbs should not be able to bend.
“You broke my fucking thumb,” he spits out.
“I'll break your fucking neck,” Gordon says again, looking pleased at this unexpected outcome.
Arthur pants harshly, squeezing his wrist like he can contain the pain somehow. If somebody told him before that a broken thumb could hurt this much, he wouldn't have believed them.
“If you touch me again,” he starts raggedly, trying to muster up all his strength and nerve now before he pukes or passes out, but Gordon shoves him back into the lockers, knocking the breath out of him, before he can finish that sentence. Arthur wonders wildly how the fuck he's doing this with a broken wrist.
“You're dead now,” Gordon says, and the reality of the situation finally grips Arthur in its entirety. He has no hope of getting out of here, no hope of beating a three-hundred-pound football player in full pads, no hope of the game finishing in time for anyone to find him. He clenches his teeth, furious at himself for letting this happen. He might actually be dead.
And then the door squeaks and thuds shut, and he hears Eames' voice bark, “Hey.”
Gordon releases him and turns around, revealing Eames, who is standing there looking confused and angry at the same time. For a second Arthur's confused, too, because Eames should be out there in the game. But then, absurdly, he feels embarrassed, standing there hugging his hand awkwardly to his chest, and he's not crying, but his eyes are watering so badly from the pain that the tears are being squeezed out involuntarily.
“Go away,” he grits out.
Eames just looks at him, and Arthur shakes his head forcefully, trying to telepathically communicate to him once again, Don't do anything dumb. Then Eames' eyes drop to Arthur's hand, and his gaze hardens.
“Get away from him.”
Gordon moves fast; his hand is at Arthur's shirt collar again, yanking him up on tiptoe, half-strangling him, and he's not even looking at Arthur. Arthur hates this, hates feeling like a rat being picked up and shaken around by a dog. He grabs Gordon's wrist, but he can only do it with one hand, and that's not enough to break his hold.
“Make me,” says Gordon.
Eames moves quickly. At once Gordon throws Arthur aside and he hits the lockers again, even harder than before, so hard he sees stars and doesn't understand why the room is tipping until his shoulder hits the floor. The other two grapple, Eames lands a blow across his face, and they break apart.
“You're just angry that Arthur emasculated you in front of the team,” Eames taunts him, keeping his body loose and limber, reading to dart out of reach.
“He wasn't so fast to fight me off all those other times,” Gordon sneers, wiping blood from his nose. “Just got on his knees and took it.” He moves in close, trying to intimidate Eames with his sheer size, and gives him a little shove. “Looked like he was gonna cry last time. I bet when you kissed him, you could still taste my spunk in his mouth.”
Eames breaks. He shoves Gordon back, as hard as he can, and throws a furious punch.
It's exactly what Gordon wants him to do. With his uninjured left hand, he grabs Eames' fist and twists brutally, swinging a knee up between Eames' legs in the same motion. Eames falls to his knees, and Gordon doesn't release his arm but wrenches harder, twisting, and Arthur anticipates what he's about to do the second before it happens. It doesn't make the crunch of bone any less unpleasant when Gordon's foot stomps down onto his rigid elbow with all his weight. Eames' arm breaking makes a sound like wet celery snapping.
After, Arthur will always admire Eames for letting out only a choked, shuddering gasp. Gordon drops his hand and lets him curl up.
“I've been wanting to kick your pansy ass for months,” he grunts, and kicks Eames full in the face. Then again in the ribs, even though Eames is already limp.
Arthur scrambles to his feet, head throbbing. Gordon looks over at him, as if only just remembering he's there. There's a tense moment wherein Arthur braces himself, swallows his pain, thinks maybe he can go another round after all, if he has to. If he can push his body that far. He takes a deep breath.
Then Eames staggers to his feet and stands, swaying slightly. His broken arm hangs uselessly; he's holding his other hand up to his face, blood pouring out between his fingers. He looks like he's about to either collapse or be sick all over the tiles.
His voice is a hoarse, choking rasp that makes blood flecks fly from his lips.
“If you touch him again,” he says, “I'll kill you.”
“Back off,” Gordon says, derisive. He moves to pass Eames and Eames slides into his path, every breath grating like it's costing him an effort.
“I will kill you,” he says, painstakingly biting out each word.
Gordon blinks and there's something new in his eyes that Arthur can't place, like mingled disgust and respect and fear. He seems to understand, right then, that Eames will not stay down; and neither will Arthur. Eames' rattling breaths fill the room.
At last, Gordon growls, “Whatever,” and he leaves. He's gone.
Eames groans and crumples.
Arthur skids to his side, dropping to his knees. Everything hurts. “He's gone,” he says. “Eames?”
“It's over,” Eames says, and Arthur thinks he means all of it, with the football team, and opens his mouth to say yeah, but then Eames sucks in a shaky breath and grits out: “The whole season. It's over. For me.”
“It's okay,” Arthur says, even though little alarm bells are going off in his head, because right now, there's panic in Eames' eyes and that scares Arthur, too. They don't know if he'll ever play again. He just did it, he chose Arthur over football, and now he's looking that choice in the face for the first time and Arthur's terrified that he doesn't like what he sees.
But Eames' eyes are glazing over fast. Arthur grabs his good hand and squeezes, forcing Eames to look at him for a second.
“I'll get a medic or someone,” he says. “Just -- stay conscious, okay?”
Eames nods his head weakly and Arthur scrambles upright. He wants to run out of here, run away from that look in Eames' eyes, as fast as he can. The sound of Eames' thick, laboured breathing follows him to the door.
“I'd do it again,” Eames says weakly, softly, behind him, like he's just read Arthur's mind. “Arthur? I'd do it again.”
Arthur bites his lip, and runs.
+
The school paper calls Eames a hero. In the article about it, it says he spotted Gordon and Arthur heading into the locker room alone, even though this isn't true. The article makes out like it was just a fight, instead of an attempted rape, which would be too improper for a wholesome Midwestern school like Proclus. Mainly it's a fluff piece, meant to gloss over the fact that they lost the game and didn't go to semis.
Eames doesn't know if they'd have lost anyway, if he'd have somehow singlehandedly been able to pull off a touchdown that would have sent them to semis, but the rest of the team seems to blame Gordon for whatever stroke of bad luck it was that caused the other team's wide receiver to catch a touchdown pass in the last two minutes of the game. They lost by one point. It seems like the kind of thing you need to blame a person for. And, well, Gordon was the one who came out of this as the villain.
He gets expelled. Eames wonders if it would've been the same punishment if he'd only been fingered for beating Arthur up in the locker room, instead of beating on Arthur and kicking the shit out of a star football player. But Arthur doesn't get punished for fracturing his wrist, so it's alright.
Gordon is the villain and Eames is supposedly the hero who saved the fey little gay kid from a severe beating, to the rest of the school; except, to the team, Gordon is the villain and Eames is the guy who got his ass handed to him while Arthur escaped with a broken thumb and managed to break the guy's wrist, which was a lot more than Eames could do. One of Gordon's friends seeks Arthur out for a bit of street justice and ends up with a mysteriously broken nose which he doesn't explain how he got to anybody. Nobody touches Arthur after that.
If anyone still suspects the two of them of being an item, nobody says anything about it. And Robert keeps his mouth shut. Eames wonders if he's glad about what happened, or if he maybe respects Eames now.
None of these things are important.
What's important is that Eames will live to play football again, and that he still has Arthur.
Looking at it that way, everything seems kind of worth it.
He's out of the game for about four months. Four months of waiting for his cracked ribs to heal. His arm heals way before then. There are six weeks at first when his arm is in a sling and his ribs are taped up and those are the worst of times. And they're the best of times: because he still has Arthur then, really and fully.
Arthur, whose hand is in a cast and who curls up with Eames in bed while he's resting, trying to ignore the burning ache he feels every time his chest expands for air. Arthur who barely talks anymore, just kisses him, very carefully to avoid brushing Eames' broken nose, like he wishes that could say it all for him. Arthur who makes fried egg sandwiches for him when he's too tired, too sore, too depressed to get out of bed. They're at least as good as Eames' mum used to make.
Cobb gets an invitation to the scouting combine. Ultimately, he will be a fifth-round pick that year and will end up playing for the Patriots as a back-up by his second year. Anderson gets an invite to the Cactus Bowl, which is an opportunity for D-II players to spend some time with NFL coaches and players, and though he doesn't go to the combine, Eames is pretty sure his name will end up on some team's roster a few years down the road. Eames wants that. He'd rather get his degree first, but it doesn't mean he isn't bitter anyway. He unloads all his grievances on Arthur, who bears it all quietly and helps him to shower. They don't even have sex, because Eames is just too painful.
All the sunshine in the world seems to come beaming back in full force the day Eames gets his cast removed. Arthur goes with him. His arm looks pale and thin and feels brittle, but at least he can move it.
“I'll have to train twice as hard this year,” he says, flexing his arm gingerly. “If I want that combine invite next year.”
Arthur nods, but his eyes seem unfocused and far away.
Eames finds out why later, when they're eating celebratory Thai food back at the flat.
“You remember back at the start of December, when you told me to grow up?” Arthur says. “Get my priorities in order?”
Eames nods, piling noodles onto his fork unconcernedly. “Yeah?”
“I've been working on that, the last couple months,” Arthur continues. “Growing up, and stuff. You're right. I've been childish. I was ... petty and bitchy and selfish to you. I've been trying to change that.”
“It shows,” Eames says, which is the truth. These days Arthur is more likely to turn quiet and reflective than spring into defensive mode with hackles raised. When he does get defensive, Eames can almost physically see him check himself. Arthur nods.
“I've been doing a lot of thinking,” he says. “And one thing I think is that I've really gotta work on that ... that selfishness. Like, I shouldn't have been begging you to take me back, when all that stuff with Robert was going on. Even then I was just thinking of myself. I was trying to fix it so I could still be with you. And because I didn't want to see you get hurt -- but I was still thinking about myself.”
“Well, it's all turned out alright, so why don't we just--”
“I'm not done,” says Arthur quietly. He's looking down at his plate. “I think caring about a person, um, loving them, even?” His gaze flickers uncertainly up to Eames at the word and drops down quickly, sheepishly. “I think that comes from thinking about their needs, and wanting to put them first. 'Cause that's what I want. I don't want to hold you back.”
“Are you kidding me?” says Eames. “Arthur, I wouldn't be playing half as well as I have been if it weren't for you. I'd probably have flunked out of school altogether if it weren't for you!”
“But you don't need me anymore. Your grades are great. Your game's even better, and you still haven't reached your full potential.”
“What are you saying?” Eames demands, because he thinks he knows where this is going, and he's starting to feel sickly.
“I'm saying, maybe I'm just ... a liability and a distraction, Eames,” says Arthur, still not meeting his eyes. “Two years in a row, your team had a shot of going to semis, and blew it partly because of me. Indirectly, but still. You don't play well when you're thinking about me.”
“The only reason I play well is because I know you're watching!”
“I'll still watch,” Arthur says hurriedly, and that word, still, like they're clinging on to something tenuous that's slipping out of their fingertips, it scares Eames. “I'll always watch you play. Look, I really want you to do well, and get drafted, and there was something my dad said ... if other people, important people, find out about us--”
“I don't care about them!” Eames bursts out. “How can you be trying to break up with me, after everything--?”
“I don't want to break up with you!” Arthur says, startled into looking at him. “That's the last thing I want! But I mean -- what I really want is for you to have the career you want, and if I ruin it for you I'll never forgive myself, so I just think we should ... take breaks.”
Eames had almost been about to rise from his bar stool. He lowers himself back onto it slowly. “Breaks.”
“Yeah. During football season. And training and stuff. But in the offseason... Look, I've thought about it, the average running back's career is only something like two and a half years, and then you retire--”
“I don't want to have a two-and-a-half-year career!” Eames argues. “L.T. was drafted in 2001 and he's still playing! Emmett Smith played for fourteen years!”
“Either way,” Arthur says hurriedly, “most backs don't realistically last as long as that. And we'd have the offseason--”
“That's a month out of the year, in the NFL!”
Arthur doesn't say anything to that. Eames gets up, wishing he could shove his bar stool away from the counter for dramatic effect, and starts pacing like a panther in a cage.
“I can't believe you,” he says.
“I just want to do right by you, Eames. And you can't go to the NFL and have a boyfriend. It doesn't work like that.”
“I know!” says Eames loudly, angry. “That's why I hate this, because I can't even argue with you! And some part of me even knows you're right -- I just don't want to even think about it, Arthur--”
Arthur gets up and joins him in the den. Eames turns, into his arms, and just holds onto him for awhile.
“We still have till August,” says Arthur. “We have all of college after football season. We don't have to do anything just yet.”
“Can't you just go back to being selfish again?” Eames asks, his voice breaking slightly.
Arthur hugs him tighter, gingerly, because of his ribs.
“It won't be as bad as you think.”
“I don't want to lose you again.”
“You won't,” Arthur says. “I promise. Even if you're playing on the other side of the country, I'll still be right here waiting. As long as it takes, okay?”
And Eames wants to believe that. He really, really wants to.
He's just not sure he does.
+++
After the game, while Eames was getting patched up in the hospital, Cobb had shown up in the waiting room and sat with Arthur, who'd already been seen for his thumb. Arthur told him everything about the past week. He needed another perspective. Cobb didn't lay blame, didn't take sides. He just listened.
“I'm worried,” Arthur said. “I'm worried he doesn't really want me back, especially now I've cost him the game ... I don't even know if he can play again.”
“I wouldn't worry about that,” Cobb said.
“No?”
Cobb drummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair for a minute, contemplating. Finally, he went on, “I've gotten to know Eames pretty well over the past year. I know he's intense about the things he loves -- football, and you. That's why he was so hurt when he realized you'd been playing him at first. Now he's had some time to think about it, and he still likes you. I don't think he'd dump you over this.”
“I just don't want to put him in danger, for being in a relationship with me. He's already got a broken arm and nose and ribs and he hasn't even come out ...”
Cobb shook his head, impatiently.
“In my last year of high school, I took my team to the state football conference. Our last game, competing for the championship, some scouts from Cobol College came out to see me play. They were going to offer me a full ride.”
Arthur raised his eyebrows, and nodded. Cobol was a Division I school, and a good one.
“I threw the game,” said Cobb simply. “And you know why? Because Mal had already gotten an early acceptance to Proclus, and Cobol is on the other side of the state. I threw the game so that she couldn't push me to go to the better school. I already know we're going to spend our lives together, I don't intend to miss out on a moment of that. I sure as hell couldn't miss out on four years with her. So, I threw the big game.”
“But,” Arthur said, unable to fathom this. “Your career ... you could've been a first-round pick with a seven-year contract, coming out of Cobol ...”
Cobb shrugged. “So what? Worst case scenario, I end up a free agent and it takes me a little longer to make it to the NFL. I already know I can do it.” And he looked at Arthur. “Sometimes you make sacrifices for people you love. If Eames thought there was no way he could reconcile a career in football and a relationship with you, I'm pretty sure he'd pick you.”
Maybe he would, Arthur thought. And he didn't even deserve it.
Priorities.
+
Arthur waits. He's not going to lie to Eames anymore. And so he stays.
He's there throughout the spring, visiting every weekend in the summer, celebrating Eames' birthday with him; up until August and the preseason games. Then they just ... stop.
He's still there, though, for the entire season, watching every one of Eames' games, and the hours and hours of extra training Eames has put in shows. Eames is on fire. He's untouchable. This season, he's rushed over a thousand yards by the tenth game.
Arthur reflects at how far Eames has come, from a cocky sophomore concerned only with the glamour that comes with the running back position, to an indomitable machine that studies every game like it's a game of chess. He doesn't win games for the glamour, nor for Arthur; he wins them for himself, which is what Arthur wants him to do.
It feels strange, though, not celebrating with him at the apartment after each game.
He's never seen with Arthur, of course, because he's not seeing Arthur. They chat online and over the phone, and Arthur still checks over his work for him, but that's about it.
And Arthur is there in December, when the team finally goes to the semis. They don't win but it's a close game, and when Eames returns to Proclus with the season officially over, Arthur is there at his apartment, and they celebrate the start of the offseason with wild abandon.
He's waiting again, when Eames goes to the scouting combine in February. He's there for graduation when he himself gets his degree in journalism and Eames finishes in the top ten percent of his class, all because Arthur gave him the right kind of test in sophomore year. When Eames goes to the draft in April, he's still fresh enough from his explosive last season that he's a fifth-round pick drafted by the Detroit Lions. There are two games, both losses, where he gets to play in garbage time; then he's traded to the Seattle Seahawks to shore up their offense.
He spends his first season as a back-up. By his second season, he's starting.
Arthur is still waiting.
They don't go out of their way to see each other, living on virtually opposite sides of the country. Not until February, Eames' single month to himself; then he flies to Arthur in Chicago and they make up for eleven months' lost time by loving each other more fiercely than any two people could.
Not that they don't see each other any other time of the year. They both travel for their jobs. Arthur is a sports journalist with a shitty salary but certain benefits like, sometimes, being sent to Seattle to cover a game. Or sometimes he and Eames will happen to be in the same city at the same time. He still talks with Eames on the phone almost every night (and sometimes there is phone sex). Apart from all of that, Arthur is basically celibate.
He's pretty sure Eames isn't. Eames has told him about the groupies who usually loiter outside the locker room after games. Dismissively, rubbing his thumb absent-mindedly around Arthur's hip bone, he'd said, “I'd be willing to bet that Cobb's the only guy in the league not fooling around on the side.”
And that's okay, because they've agreed that their relationship should be open when they're apart. It's just that Arthur doesn't fool around at all, and maybe that's just another way he's grown up. He'd left high school as a restless teenager ready to have any number of meaningless flings with people like Robert Fischer, because sex has always been fun. But he's changed in that regard. If somebody had told his freshman seventeen-year-old self that he would voluntarily go six months without sleeping with anyone, he'd have said they were crazy; but that's Eames, really, that's just what Eames does to him. Like the lovesick young wife of a soldier in a cheesy war movie, Arthur waits.
Eames' contract lasts three years. The third year is the hardest, not least of all because of all the reports popping up on various blogs about Eames being spotted with B-list movie star Sherryn Benoit. He's pretty sure it's a ploy by Eames' agent to gain him publicity, but after all, he knows Eames is at least bisexual. He doesn't bring it up to Eames, anyway, and Eames doesn't mention it either, when they hook up in New Orleans.
Every day Arthur wakes up and imagines the day when Eames' contract will expire, imagines what it will be like to wake up to him every morning for the rest of his life. The time seems to pass slower and slower as that day approaches. And Arthur loves his job, he loves getting paid to watch football. But his life just doesn't seem full without Eames in it.
So he waits.
Eames shows up at the door of his Chicago apartment one night. It's a bye week, but Arthur wasn't expecting him tonight.
“Do I know you from somewhere?” he asks, leaning into the door, playing coy. He feels the same rush he always does when he sees Eames and he's not expecting it: all his nerves are tingling. “From TV, maybe?”
“Shut it,” Eames says, shivering from the cold outside but grinning. He dumps the duffel bag slung over his shoulder onto the floor and steps inside, slotting his freezing hands around Arthur's waist and pulling him in for a kiss.
“Oh yeah,” Arthur says, when he gets a chance to breathe. “You're that big football star.”
He doesn't get a chance to say anything more, because Eames promptly scoops him up and slings him over his shoulder, kicking the door shut. “Show-off,” Arthur huffs, as Eames carries him all the way to the bedroom and dumps him on the bed. He removes Arthur's glasses delicately and puts them on the night-stand.
“Missed you,” he says.
He seems bigger every time Arthur sees him up close. Maybe because he's used to watching Eames on TV. He's not the most heavily built guy in the league or even his team by a long shot, but he's just solid and strong, strong enough to twist out of most tackles without going down and to bull other people out of his way. He could probably break bones with those hands. Instead, he starts stripping Arthur's clothing off. Arthur lets him, perfectly compliant on his back. This is not what he'd had planned for the evening -- working on his next article with sitcom reruns playing in the background had been the main agenda -- but he's okay with the turn this evening has taken.
They don't talk very much. Over the years they've sort of mastered silent communication, letting their bodies fill in the gaps. Arthur stretches over to the table to grab a condom and lube while Eames kisses his way up Arthur's flat stomach to his neck, mouthing affectionately at the soft skin there, his body covering Arthur's own. Then Arthur flops back, allowing Eames to cup Arthur's leg under the knee and drape it over his shoulder.
But before he even uncaps the lube, he nuzzles Arthur's calf with his cheek. Stubble scratching gently at the pale flesh, he kisses his way along Arthur's knee and inner thigh, running his hand up and down the length of Arthur's leg as he does so. Arthur shivers as Eames continues to trail up his stomach, like he wants to cover every inch of Arthur's body in kisses. Like they're eighteen- and twenty-years-old again, desperately horny, like this is still new to them and they can't get enough of each other's bodies. Even though they're not kids anymore and they've had years to get their fill; even with their limited time, which mostly leads them to rush when they do get an odd night together.
Eames slicks up his fingers as his lips finally find Arthur's, forcing him to bend uncomfortably. His words slur slightly when Eames finally starts to ease a finger inside him.
“What're you do... Oh.”
Eames sits back slightly so that he can observe Arthur, taking some of the pressure off his stomach muscles. He doesn't sit back far enough that Arthur can't still feel Eames' warm breath on his face.
“I'm madly in love with you,” Eames murmurs, fingers curling just enough to make Arthur's spine arch off the bed. “Desperately. Well and truly.”
“I know,” Arthur gasps, digging his own fingers into the sheets. Eames' lips curve up.
“What gave me away?”
“Maybe the fact that you flew all the way to Chicago to see me just because you have a couple days off.”
“You?” Eames' chuckle is low and rich and velvety, wrapping around him. Arthur swears over the years that Eames' voice has only gotten deeper. “Oh no, pet, I came to Chicago for the pizza.”
“Asshole,” Arthur murmurs, letting his eyes slip shut, a smile tugging at his lip. He can feel himself breaking into a warm flush as Eames' thick fingers send little rills of pleasure down all his limbs. Eames chuckles again.
When it comes down to it, this is why Arthur could never sleep with anyone else, even when he and Eames are apart for four months and all he can do is jack himself till he's numb. It's because Eames is different. He makes this different. He knows every spot on Arthur's body that makes him shiver and every way to make him nearly sob with pleasure. But more than that; it's that they can do this, be in bed together and still be having a lazy conversation. It's that this is comfortable.
And maybe, on the other hand, that's what might attract Eames to the groupies that follow his team around, and maybe Arthur wouldn't blame him. Arthur will never get his fill of this -- being intimate -- because he's one of those people who are lucky enough to be fucking one of their best friends, but maybe Eames gets tired of it after awhile. Maybe he needs variety and the exhilaration of an anonymous hook-up, now and then.
Not Arthur, though; not ever.
He's nearly begging by the time Eames finally replaces his fingers with his cock. It's been way too long, and it hurts at first, as it always does when they've been apart for awhile, but it's a good hurt. Eames' strong hands grip his hips and shift him till he's in just the right position -- he knows how Arthur loves the feeling of being manhandled. And Arthur knows Eames loves it when he's noisy, so he drops all his inhibitions and groans, whimpers when Eames drives into him hard, dropping whined fucks into the air between their lips. And Eames keeps kissing him -- soft, wet, noisy kisses, up Arthur's thigh, up his chest, under his jaw.
“Come on, Eames, fuck me,” Arthur grits out, slinging his arm over his face. Maddeningly, Eames slows his thrusts till he's just rocking in and out at a torturous pace.
“I love you,” he says, and it's a very different tone from when he said I'm madly in love with you; it's softer, like he's afraid Arthur didn't believe him the first time. Part of Arthur still wants to laugh at such a declaration during such an act of debauchery -- they're fucking, for God's sake, Eames' cock is in his ass -- but then Eames is pushing Arthur's arm out of the way and laying kisses all over his face, and Arthur gets that warm feeling of intimacy all over again. He is so lucky.
“I love you too,” he whispers, winding a hand into Eames' hair.
Eames stop manhandling him after that. He just thrusts slowly in and out, and it's so different from their usual rushed, breathless fucks but even better, in a way. They just fuck leisurely and kiss, until Eames sits back so he can wrap a hand around Arthur, and it takes him no time at all to come after that. Then he's just a limp, boneless puddle in the sheets, Eames' lips at his throat, till Eames follows less than a minute later.
For awhile they just lie together in silence, on top of the sheets. Arthur knows he should shower, but he also knows that after they've napped for a bit, Eames will wake up and want to fuck him again. So he's content to just doze for awhile.
He rolls onto his stomach, and has almost drifted off when he feels Eames nosing under his jaw, stubble scratching his neck. He arches his back, catlike, into the hand Eames trails down his spine, and mumbles, “Fuck off. Sleeping.”
Eames just keeps kissing him more insistently, until Arthur tilts his head to give him access to his mouth. Then Eames rolls him back over, resting his forehead against Arthur's.
“We need to talk,” he says softly.
Arthur already knows what it's about and he immediately, irrationally, feels stupid and embarrassed, like he should at least be clothed for this. He's suddenly angry that he let Eames fuck him first. This is why: Eames wanted him like this, loose and placid and well-fucked, too tired to get really riled up about it. That's why he was so gentle and affectionate.
Arthur doesn't say anything. Eames' eyelashes brush his when he blinks.
“The Hawks want to renew my contract,” he says.
“That's great,” says Arthur. “How about a quote for the Tribune, Mr. Eames?”
Eames sighs and kisses him again. Arthur pushes him off and rolls over. He hears the bed creak as Eames sits up behind him.
“I knew you'd be pissed,” he says.
“I'm not pissed,” says Arthur stiffly. “I already decided a long time ago not to get in the way of your career. I'd be a hypocrite to be pissed off about it now.”
“And yet you're pissed.”
Arthur bites his lip, because he doesn't want to whine. Eames strokes his hair.
“I'll turn them down if you want me to.”
“You love your job,” says Arthur, still not rolling over to face him. “You love your team.”
“I love you more.”
Why does he have to say shit like that when Arthur just wants to be furious at him? He swallows the knot in his throat and rolls over.
“If you want to keep playing football, that's what I want, too.”
“Then why don't I just come out, once and for all?”
Arthur shakes his head immediately. “No, Eames.”
Impatiently, Eames says, “Every single day, I think about how stupid this is -- talking on the phone, pretending we barely know each other in the locker room. I could be flying you out to where I am every week, and instead we're lucky if we get to see each other every few months.”
Arthur laughs to mask the ache he feels. “Well, that's what you've got groupies for, isn't it?”
“What?”
Eames says it so sharply that Arthur instantly regrets it. He starts to shake his head, but Eames grabs him by the shoulder and pushes him onto his back so he can lean over him.
“Is that what you think?” he asks, glaring into Arthur's eyes. “You think I'm sleeping around when I'm away from you?”
“You said,” says Arthur, unable to meet his gaze, “Cobb was probably the only guy not fooling around ...”
“I meant the married guys, you prat,” says Eames angrily. “It's only you, it's only ever been you, Arthur, don't you know that by now?”
Chagrined, Arthur looks away. Eames sighs, and buries his face in Arthur's neck.
“I just miss you so much,” he says. “It doesn't make sense to me that we shouldn't be together.”
“I have a job here.”
“So get a job in Seattle!” says Eames. “You could be a sports beat writer with the Hawks, then I'd see you all the time, we could even live together--”
“No, Eames!” says Arthur again, sharply. “Everyone would find out about us, you cannot be the first openly gay football player. People wouldn't know how to react. You're a running back, you're already pretty much putting your life on the line every time you go out there without slapping a big rainbow target on your head--”
Eames jabs him in the ribs, right where he knows Arthur is ticklish, and Arthur squirms and huffs.
“You're so dramatic,” Eames says, but he looks put out, and Arthur knows he's made his point. “I just hate this. Remember last November, when you got sick, and I couldn't even fly out here for a day to cuddle you or make you soup or anything I wanted to do? I just had to listen to you coughing over the phone, and it drove me mental, Arthur. Being together should entail actually being together. I don't have to be out -- but you could still be in Seattle with me.”
“Someone would find out,” says Arthur flatly. “Remember Robert? That'll happen all over again. Someone will see us and put it together.”
“Maybe I don't care if they do,” says Eames.
“Maybe you're an idiot,” says Arthur, because he's running out of arguments, and that, at least, makes Eames grin, for a second or two. Then it fades.
“I don't know what to do,” he says. “I don't know how to choose. At least this way I have you and my job both -- but I don't have you enough, and it's making me crazy.”
“You could retire,” says Arthur, as neutrally as he can. “You could move here. Be a coach somewhere.”
Eames shakes his head, looking lost. “Tell me what to do.”
“Why do I have to tell you?”
“Because you're supposed to be the smart one,” says Eames. Arthur laughs.
“Eames,” he says, gently. “I have never been the smart one.”
+
He signs the contract.
Arthur pretends it doesn't hurt.
He's okayed to go to Seattle on opening game day, and after he lands he takes a cab to Eames' house, a big, one-story bungalow in a somewhat private community. All the same, he takes a surreptitious glance around to make sure nobody's on the street as he lets himself into Eames' home.
Eames' black Lab promptly crashes into his knees, her otter tail banging off the decorative hall table.
“Hi, Mattie,” Arthur says, dropping his suitcase so he can pet her. “Where is he?”
She licks his hand, whole body wriggling, then gallops off to the kitchen. Arthur follows her. It's empty, but once he lets her outside for a pee, he spies the note on the whiteboard hanging on the fridge.
Gone to get ready for the game. See you in the media room, darling? xoxo
Annoyed, Arthur swipes a bottle of water from the fridge and sips at it until Mattie barks to be let in. Eames couldn't even stick around to greet him after his flight? It's not like they can carpool to the stadium, but all the same, his absence stings -- especially today. The first game of a brand-new contract.
He cabs it to the stadium, anyway. It's not his place to be annoyed.
From the press box he watches as Eames sprints onto the field, lines up, makes a running play in the first down and gains six yards before he's tackled. Arthur's watching the other players too, of course; but mainly Eames. He's the most interesting, anyway. The Seahawks' fans tend to agree with this assessment: Arthur spies a lot of signs in the crowd bearing statements like, WE ♥ EAMES and WINSTON FOR THE WIN (and he really hopes Eames sees that one, if only because it will make him cringe). Eames has a lot of supporters in the crowd, and the cheering when he makes the game's first touchdown is tumultuous.
And Arthur, he's just hoping the other reporters around him can't see the way he's grinning like an idiot, since it was a wildcat play, which he knows is Eames' personal love letter to him.
His hurt at Eames' signing the contract is already fading. They both love this game; how can he fault Eames for that? Arthur would have a hell of a time giving up his own career, if it came to that.
It's not exactly a tight game, with the final score at 38-21, but close enough to hold interest through to the last quarter. After that Arthur packs up and heads down to the media room to await the team. There's nothing he particularly needs for his story, so he just takes a seat at the back to watch. Sure enough, Eames is one of the players who accompanies the coach out for the post-game press conference. When he sees Arthur, he flashes him a quick smile.
Most of the questions are routine, how does it feel to start the season with such a big win, do you think the playoffs are in the future for the Hawks this year, et cetera. Arthur reclines in his seat and waits for it to end; maybe he'll even risk driving home with Eames, the sooner to get each other's clothes off. He just wishes Eames wasn't staring at him so hard right now, chin propped in his hand absently, like he doesn't even know he's doing it. Normally Eames plays it more casually, same as Arthur; even when it's Arthur asking him a question, they go through the motions blandly, perfunctory. Today it's like Arthur is a distraction.
It's getting harder for Arthur to ignore him, so he gets up to leave surreptitiously, and that's when another journalist jabs his pen into the air and says, “Question for Mr. Eames. Your agent has refused to comment on the rumours concerning an engagement between you and Sherryn Benoit. Can you confirm or deny this?”
“An engagement?” Eames drawls, blinking. Arthur turns, and Eames is looking directly at him. “Oh, no. Sherryn and I are good friends. I have a boyfriend.”
The air leaves Arthur's lungs like it's been sucked out. He can hear the blood pumping, muffled, in his ears. He wants to be furious, he can't believe Eames just said that on national television -- but he can't be angry. Not the way Eames is looking at him. Like they're the only two people in this room, in the whole world, and it doesn't matter what anybody else thinks.
It doesn't even matter what Arthur thinks, because this was always Eames' choice to make, and he's chosen this. Arthur stands there, transfixed, heart aching. It's a good ache.
Eames smiles, a slow, lazy, confident smile, and finally looks away from Arthur and leans closer to the podium to punctuate the silence that has followed his statement.
“Any other questions?”
end.
the sequel
Anyway what I'm trying to say is I FINISHED THIS STORY, and I think you guys are awesome for bearing with me, because I would be throwing rocks at me right now, if I was you guys. Maybe in future I'll try to have shit finished before I start posting it? Although then updates could take months? idk you guys idk :'C Anyway, as always, thank you dearly for the comments, they feed my soul and keep me going, and I hope the ending is to your satisfaction. <3
ps. This part is like, ~8400 words. Whaaaat.
previous part
+++
Arthur watches as Eames sprints out of the locker room, back to his game, and as soon as he's gone and Arthur is alone, he drops onto a bench and buries his face in his hands.
Don't cry, he tells himself furiously, but a tear slips out anyway and it feels steaming hot on his face, and swallowing around the knot in his throat is painful. He's just had the nastiest revelation of his life, and he hates how it feels.
He cannot be with Eames anymore.
He cannot be with Eames because Arthur is a selfish fuck and Eames will always put him first, and Arthur will ruin everything for him like he nearly did today. He can't believe how close Eames came to outing himself. After all that stress, all that terror over what Robert might do, and in the end it was almost Eames who outed himself. For Arthur.
Who does that? How can anyone be that selfless? Eames just nearly destroyed his own career and he'd have done it for Arthur, and that scares the shit out of Arthur, makes him grit his teeth and shake with suppressed sobs. Nobody's ever done something like that for him, and that's terrifying.
So he can't be with Eames. If he's with Eames, this will happen again. Eames might survive this game, but there'll be another time when this happens, when people come close to sniffing them out, maybe next season, maybe two years from now when Eames is a free agent or playing for the league, and of course Eames will forget about the consequences and affirm everything, just because he loves Arthur, because he's so good like that.
And Arthur, he feels like someone's just dumped cold water all over him. All this week he's been fighting to stop Robert -- why? To save Eames' career? Or because he wants to be with Eames, because he loves Eames' attention, and just couldn't stand that hurt and anger in Eames' eyes when he looked at Arthur?
Because he's selfish and Eames is right and it's about time he grows up, that's why.
And that's why, as soon as this game is over, he has to dump Eames for good. To keep him safe, and because Eames loves him too much to ever break it off himself, no matter how Arthur jeopardizes him.
But for now Arthur just wants to sit here alone, for awhile, and soak up the last few minutes wherein he can still call himself Eames' boyfriend. He doesn't go back out. If he does, he knows Eames will look for him before every play, and that'll be too hard to face, knowing he's about to let Eames down so bitterly.
He's calm, settled almost into a state of cold numbness, when the door swings open and Gordon stomps in, holding his arm against his chest and scowling. His wrist is badly swollen by now.
Arthur jumps up instinctively, but he's in the corner and Gordon's standing between either exit. Noticing Arthur, he stops, and they face off warily for a moment.
“If you touch me I'll break your whole arm,” Arthur says at last.
“Only need one to snap your fucking neck,” Gordon grunts.
You're an idiot, a little voice sings in the back of Arthur's head. Standing up to his most hated tormentor had felt so good. Now he's cursing himself for being so stupid. Why did he have to fracture Gordon's wrist? Why couldn't he have just broken his hold and backed off?
Gordon advances. Wildly, Arthur runs over jujutsu moves in his mind.
“You think you're funny?” Gordon asks. “Pulling a stunt like that in front of all the guys?”
“I warned you,” Arthur says quietly, pulse pounding in his ears. Distantly, he can hear the noise of the crowd in the stadium. There are thousands of people out there and none of them know he's in here.
Gordon swipes suddenly. Arthur knocks his arm aside and backs away. Stupid, he thinks. He could have grabbed Gordon's arm and sent him crashing into the lockers, he could have done anything, he could have--
With a snarl, Gordon lunges at him. He's too big to avoid; Arthur doesn't manage to move in time and when Gordon slams into him, the backs of his legs hit the bench and he's sent tumbling backwards. His head hits the lockers hard, his tailbone hits the ground harder. He arches, groaning through his teeth, planting his hands against the lockers to try and push himself upright. Gordon's huge fist snatches him, knotting in his shirt, before he can rise halfway; hauls him to his feet and slams him up against the lockers.
“I'm gonna fuck you up so hard you won't sit for a week,” he growls, leaning down close to Arthur's face.
No, Arthur thinks, angry and sore and too old to put up with this shit now, but something keeps him from saying it aloud. It's something in Gordon's face, something in the way he's looking at Arthur. There's so much contempt, and disgust, and Arthur isn't as good at this, reading people like this, as Eames is, but for the first time he has to wonder how anyone can possibly hate him this much, just for the crime of being ... of being...
“Oh, my God,” Arthur says. “You're gay.”
Gordon punches him. He's only got the one good arm, so he has to let go of Arthur to do it, and Arthur manages to slip aside, almost; and it's his left hand, so it's not as hard as it could have been, but it knocks Arthur to the floor all the same. He hits the ground and scrambles to his feet, stunned.
“That's why you hate me,” he says. His mouth seems to be running away from him now and he laughs harshly. “You hate me because deep down, you're even more of a fag than I am.”
“I hate you because you're fucking smartass queer who doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut,” Gordon snaps, but he looks even more furious than before. He's shaking now.
He swipes again and Arthur ducks. He doesn't pity Gordon. If he stops moving, if he loses this fight -- he can't even think about it, it sounds almost laughably dramatic in his mind, but it's no less real a threat, not with Gordon standing right in front of him and still blocking the exits. He already knows this guy does not harbour any deep-seated love or attraction for him. Gordon wants to destroy him because Arthur personifies that which he hates about himself.
Gordon swings while Arthur is running over these possibilities in his head, and he hits the locker again. Gordon's hand closes over his wrist but he lets go as soon as Arthur twists to break his hold, obviously not wanting to risk a second injury. So he swipes again, furiously, and Arthur catches his hand. This time Gordon locks his hand around Arthur's as though he's going to help pull him upright, and Arthur's not sure how to break that. He struggles, panting, and startles himself with the words that fall out of his mouth, because he means them:
“I won't tell anyone.”
“No you won't, 'cause you're gonna be drinking your meals with a straw when I'm through with you,” Gordon hisses, leaning down close again. He starts to wrench away and Gordon squeezes, and Arthur feels more than hears the pop in his hand.
He has a second to think, dazedly, that Gordon, too, knows joint locks.
And then: a flood of pain and nausea. His strangled, hastily-stifled shout makes Gordon release him and back away more out of surprise than anything. Arthur cradles his hand to his chest immediately, and the sight of his thumb makes him feel faint. It's bent at a stiff, unnatural angle, jutting away from the rest of his fingers in a way thumbs should not be able to bend.
“You broke my fucking thumb,” he spits out.
“I'll break your fucking neck,” Gordon says again, looking pleased at this unexpected outcome.
Arthur pants harshly, squeezing his wrist like he can contain the pain somehow. If somebody told him before that a broken thumb could hurt this much, he wouldn't have believed them.
“If you touch me again,” he starts raggedly, trying to muster up all his strength and nerve now before he pukes or passes out, but Gordon shoves him back into the lockers, knocking the breath out of him, before he can finish that sentence. Arthur wonders wildly how the fuck he's doing this with a broken wrist.
“You're dead now,” Gordon says, and the reality of the situation finally grips Arthur in its entirety. He has no hope of getting out of here, no hope of beating a three-hundred-pound football player in full pads, no hope of the game finishing in time for anyone to find him. He clenches his teeth, furious at himself for letting this happen. He might actually be dead.
And then the door squeaks and thuds shut, and he hears Eames' voice bark, “Hey.”
Gordon releases him and turns around, revealing Eames, who is standing there looking confused and angry at the same time. For a second Arthur's confused, too, because Eames should be out there in the game. But then, absurdly, he feels embarrassed, standing there hugging his hand awkwardly to his chest, and he's not crying, but his eyes are watering so badly from the pain that the tears are being squeezed out involuntarily.
“Go away,” he grits out.
Eames just looks at him, and Arthur shakes his head forcefully, trying to telepathically communicate to him once again, Don't do anything dumb. Then Eames' eyes drop to Arthur's hand, and his gaze hardens.
“Get away from him.”
Gordon moves fast; his hand is at Arthur's shirt collar again, yanking him up on tiptoe, half-strangling him, and he's not even looking at Arthur. Arthur hates this, hates feeling like a rat being picked up and shaken around by a dog. He grabs Gordon's wrist, but he can only do it with one hand, and that's not enough to break his hold.
“Make me,” says Gordon.
Eames moves quickly. At once Gordon throws Arthur aside and he hits the lockers again, even harder than before, so hard he sees stars and doesn't understand why the room is tipping until his shoulder hits the floor. The other two grapple, Eames lands a blow across his face, and they break apart.
“You're just angry that Arthur emasculated you in front of the team,” Eames taunts him, keeping his body loose and limber, reading to dart out of reach.
“He wasn't so fast to fight me off all those other times,” Gordon sneers, wiping blood from his nose. “Just got on his knees and took it.” He moves in close, trying to intimidate Eames with his sheer size, and gives him a little shove. “Looked like he was gonna cry last time. I bet when you kissed him, you could still taste my spunk in his mouth.”
Eames breaks. He shoves Gordon back, as hard as he can, and throws a furious punch.
It's exactly what Gordon wants him to do. With his uninjured left hand, he grabs Eames' fist and twists brutally, swinging a knee up between Eames' legs in the same motion. Eames falls to his knees, and Gordon doesn't release his arm but wrenches harder, twisting, and Arthur anticipates what he's about to do the second before it happens. It doesn't make the crunch of bone any less unpleasant when Gordon's foot stomps down onto his rigid elbow with all his weight. Eames' arm breaking makes a sound like wet celery snapping.
After, Arthur will always admire Eames for letting out only a choked, shuddering gasp. Gordon drops his hand and lets him curl up.
“I've been wanting to kick your pansy ass for months,” he grunts, and kicks Eames full in the face. Then again in the ribs, even though Eames is already limp.
Arthur scrambles to his feet, head throbbing. Gordon looks over at him, as if only just remembering he's there. There's a tense moment wherein Arthur braces himself, swallows his pain, thinks maybe he can go another round after all, if he has to. If he can push his body that far. He takes a deep breath.
Then Eames staggers to his feet and stands, swaying slightly. His broken arm hangs uselessly; he's holding his other hand up to his face, blood pouring out between his fingers. He looks like he's about to either collapse or be sick all over the tiles.
His voice is a hoarse, choking rasp that makes blood flecks fly from his lips.
“If you touch him again,” he says, “I'll kill you.”
“Back off,” Gordon says, derisive. He moves to pass Eames and Eames slides into his path, every breath grating like it's costing him an effort.
“I will kill you,” he says, painstakingly biting out each word.
Gordon blinks and there's something new in his eyes that Arthur can't place, like mingled disgust and respect and fear. He seems to understand, right then, that Eames will not stay down; and neither will Arthur. Eames' rattling breaths fill the room.
At last, Gordon growls, “Whatever,” and he leaves. He's gone.
Eames groans and crumples.
Arthur skids to his side, dropping to his knees. Everything hurts. “He's gone,” he says. “Eames?”
“It's over,” Eames says, and Arthur thinks he means all of it, with the football team, and opens his mouth to say yeah, but then Eames sucks in a shaky breath and grits out: “The whole season. It's over. For me.”
“It's okay,” Arthur says, even though little alarm bells are going off in his head, because right now, there's panic in Eames' eyes and that scares Arthur, too. They don't know if he'll ever play again. He just did it, he chose Arthur over football, and now he's looking that choice in the face for the first time and Arthur's terrified that he doesn't like what he sees.
But Eames' eyes are glazing over fast. Arthur grabs his good hand and squeezes, forcing Eames to look at him for a second.
“I'll get a medic or someone,” he says. “Just -- stay conscious, okay?”
Eames nods his head weakly and Arthur scrambles upright. He wants to run out of here, run away from that look in Eames' eyes, as fast as he can. The sound of Eames' thick, laboured breathing follows him to the door.
“I'd do it again,” Eames says weakly, softly, behind him, like he's just read Arthur's mind. “Arthur? I'd do it again.”
Arthur bites his lip, and runs.
+
The school paper calls Eames a hero. In the article about it, it says he spotted Gordon and Arthur heading into the locker room alone, even though this isn't true. The article makes out like it was just a fight, instead of an attempted rape, which would be too improper for a wholesome Midwestern school like Proclus. Mainly it's a fluff piece, meant to gloss over the fact that they lost the game and didn't go to semis.
Eames doesn't know if they'd have lost anyway, if he'd have somehow singlehandedly been able to pull off a touchdown that would have sent them to semis, but the rest of the team seems to blame Gordon for whatever stroke of bad luck it was that caused the other team's wide receiver to catch a touchdown pass in the last two minutes of the game. They lost by one point. It seems like the kind of thing you need to blame a person for. And, well, Gordon was the one who came out of this as the villain.
He gets expelled. Eames wonders if it would've been the same punishment if he'd only been fingered for beating Arthur up in the locker room, instead of beating on Arthur and kicking the shit out of a star football player. But Arthur doesn't get punished for fracturing his wrist, so it's alright.
Gordon is the villain and Eames is supposedly the hero who saved the fey little gay kid from a severe beating, to the rest of the school; except, to the team, Gordon is the villain and Eames is the guy who got his ass handed to him while Arthur escaped with a broken thumb and managed to break the guy's wrist, which was a lot more than Eames could do. One of Gordon's friends seeks Arthur out for a bit of street justice and ends up with a mysteriously broken nose which he doesn't explain how he got to anybody. Nobody touches Arthur after that.
If anyone still suspects the two of them of being an item, nobody says anything about it. And Robert keeps his mouth shut. Eames wonders if he's glad about what happened, or if he maybe respects Eames now.
None of these things are important.
What's important is that Eames will live to play football again, and that he still has Arthur.
Looking at it that way, everything seems kind of worth it.
He's out of the game for about four months. Four months of waiting for his cracked ribs to heal. His arm heals way before then. There are six weeks at first when his arm is in a sling and his ribs are taped up and those are the worst of times. And they're the best of times: because he still has Arthur then, really and fully.
Arthur, whose hand is in a cast and who curls up with Eames in bed while he's resting, trying to ignore the burning ache he feels every time his chest expands for air. Arthur who barely talks anymore, just kisses him, very carefully to avoid brushing Eames' broken nose, like he wishes that could say it all for him. Arthur who makes fried egg sandwiches for him when he's too tired, too sore, too depressed to get out of bed. They're at least as good as Eames' mum used to make.
Cobb gets an invitation to the scouting combine. Ultimately, he will be a fifth-round pick that year and will end up playing for the Patriots as a back-up by his second year. Anderson gets an invite to the Cactus Bowl, which is an opportunity for D-II players to spend some time with NFL coaches and players, and though he doesn't go to the combine, Eames is pretty sure his name will end up on some team's roster a few years down the road. Eames wants that. He'd rather get his degree first, but it doesn't mean he isn't bitter anyway. He unloads all his grievances on Arthur, who bears it all quietly and helps him to shower. They don't even have sex, because Eames is just too painful.
All the sunshine in the world seems to come beaming back in full force the day Eames gets his cast removed. Arthur goes with him. His arm looks pale and thin and feels brittle, but at least he can move it.
“I'll have to train twice as hard this year,” he says, flexing his arm gingerly. “If I want that combine invite next year.”
Arthur nods, but his eyes seem unfocused and far away.
Eames finds out why later, when they're eating celebratory Thai food back at the flat.
“You remember back at the start of December, when you told me to grow up?” Arthur says. “Get my priorities in order?”
Eames nods, piling noodles onto his fork unconcernedly. “Yeah?”
“I've been working on that, the last couple months,” Arthur continues. “Growing up, and stuff. You're right. I've been childish. I was ... petty and bitchy and selfish to you. I've been trying to change that.”
“It shows,” Eames says, which is the truth. These days Arthur is more likely to turn quiet and reflective than spring into defensive mode with hackles raised. When he does get defensive, Eames can almost physically see him check himself. Arthur nods.
“I've been doing a lot of thinking,” he says. “And one thing I think is that I've really gotta work on that ... that selfishness. Like, I shouldn't have been begging you to take me back, when all that stuff with Robert was going on. Even then I was just thinking of myself. I was trying to fix it so I could still be with you. And because I didn't want to see you get hurt -- but I was still thinking about myself.”
“Well, it's all turned out alright, so why don't we just--”
“I'm not done,” says Arthur quietly. He's looking down at his plate. “I think caring about a person, um, loving them, even?” His gaze flickers uncertainly up to Eames at the word and drops down quickly, sheepishly. “I think that comes from thinking about their needs, and wanting to put them first. 'Cause that's what I want. I don't want to hold you back.”
“Are you kidding me?” says Eames. “Arthur, I wouldn't be playing half as well as I have been if it weren't for you. I'd probably have flunked out of school altogether if it weren't for you!”
“But you don't need me anymore. Your grades are great. Your game's even better, and you still haven't reached your full potential.”
“What are you saying?” Eames demands, because he thinks he knows where this is going, and he's starting to feel sickly.
“I'm saying, maybe I'm just ... a liability and a distraction, Eames,” says Arthur, still not meeting his eyes. “Two years in a row, your team had a shot of going to semis, and blew it partly because of me. Indirectly, but still. You don't play well when you're thinking about me.”
“The only reason I play well is because I know you're watching!”
“I'll still watch,” Arthur says hurriedly, and that word, still, like they're clinging on to something tenuous that's slipping out of their fingertips, it scares Eames. “I'll always watch you play. Look, I really want you to do well, and get drafted, and there was something my dad said ... if other people, important people, find out about us--”
“I don't care about them!” Eames bursts out. “How can you be trying to break up with me, after everything--?”
“I don't want to break up with you!” Arthur says, startled into looking at him. “That's the last thing I want! But I mean -- what I really want is for you to have the career you want, and if I ruin it for you I'll never forgive myself, so I just think we should ... take breaks.”
Eames had almost been about to rise from his bar stool. He lowers himself back onto it slowly. “Breaks.”
“Yeah. During football season. And training and stuff. But in the offseason... Look, I've thought about it, the average running back's career is only something like two and a half years, and then you retire--”
“I don't want to have a two-and-a-half-year career!” Eames argues. “L.T. was drafted in 2001 and he's still playing! Emmett Smith played for fourteen years!”
“Either way,” Arthur says hurriedly, “most backs don't realistically last as long as that. And we'd have the offseason--”
“That's a month out of the year, in the NFL!”
Arthur doesn't say anything to that. Eames gets up, wishing he could shove his bar stool away from the counter for dramatic effect, and starts pacing like a panther in a cage.
“I can't believe you,” he says.
“I just want to do right by you, Eames. And you can't go to the NFL and have a boyfriend. It doesn't work like that.”
“I know!” says Eames loudly, angry. “That's why I hate this, because I can't even argue with you! And some part of me even knows you're right -- I just don't want to even think about it, Arthur--”
Arthur gets up and joins him in the den. Eames turns, into his arms, and just holds onto him for awhile.
“We still have till August,” says Arthur. “We have all of college after football season. We don't have to do anything just yet.”
“Can't you just go back to being selfish again?” Eames asks, his voice breaking slightly.
Arthur hugs him tighter, gingerly, because of his ribs.
“It won't be as bad as you think.”
“I don't want to lose you again.”
“You won't,” Arthur says. “I promise. Even if you're playing on the other side of the country, I'll still be right here waiting. As long as it takes, okay?”
And Eames wants to believe that. He really, really wants to.
He's just not sure he does.
+++
After the game, while Eames was getting patched up in the hospital, Cobb had shown up in the waiting room and sat with Arthur, who'd already been seen for his thumb. Arthur told him everything about the past week. He needed another perspective. Cobb didn't lay blame, didn't take sides. He just listened.
“I'm worried,” Arthur said. “I'm worried he doesn't really want me back, especially now I've cost him the game ... I don't even know if he can play again.”
“I wouldn't worry about that,” Cobb said.
“No?”
Cobb drummed his fingers on the armrest of his chair for a minute, contemplating. Finally, he went on, “I've gotten to know Eames pretty well over the past year. I know he's intense about the things he loves -- football, and you. That's why he was so hurt when he realized you'd been playing him at first. Now he's had some time to think about it, and he still likes you. I don't think he'd dump you over this.”
“I just don't want to put him in danger, for being in a relationship with me. He's already got a broken arm and nose and ribs and he hasn't even come out ...”
Cobb shook his head, impatiently.
“In my last year of high school, I took my team to the state football conference. Our last game, competing for the championship, some scouts from Cobol College came out to see me play. They were going to offer me a full ride.”
Arthur raised his eyebrows, and nodded. Cobol was a Division I school, and a good one.
“I threw the game,” said Cobb simply. “And you know why? Because Mal had already gotten an early acceptance to Proclus, and Cobol is on the other side of the state. I threw the game so that she couldn't push me to go to the better school. I already know we're going to spend our lives together, I don't intend to miss out on a moment of that. I sure as hell couldn't miss out on four years with her. So, I threw the big game.”
“But,” Arthur said, unable to fathom this. “Your career ... you could've been a first-round pick with a seven-year contract, coming out of Cobol ...”
Cobb shrugged. “So what? Worst case scenario, I end up a free agent and it takes me a little longer to make it to the NFL. I already know I can do it.” And he looked at Arthur. “Sometimes you make sacrifices for people you love. If Eames thought there was no way he could reconcile a career in football and a relationship with you, I'm pretty sure he'd pick you.”
Maybe he would, Arthur thought. And he didn't even deserve it.
Priorities.
+
Arthur waits. He's not going to lie to Eames anymore. And so he stays.
He's there throughout the spring, visiting every weekend in the summer, celebrating Eames' birthday with him; up until August and the preseason games. Then they just ... stop.
He's still there, though, for the entire season, watching every one of Eames' games, and the hours and hours of extra training Eames has put in shows. Eames is on fire. He's untouchable. This season, he's rushed over a thousand yards by the tenth game.
Arthur reflects at how far Eames has come, from a cocky sophomore concerned only with the glamour that comes with the running back position, to an indomitable machine that studies every game like it's a game of chess. He doesn't win games for the glamour, nor for Arthur; he wins them for himself, which is what Arthur wants him to do.
It feels strange, though, not celebrating with him at the apartment after each game.
He's never seen with Arthur, of course, because he's not seeing Arthur. They chat online and over the phone, and Arthur still checks over his work for him, but that's about it.
And Arthur is there in December, when the team finally goes to the semis. They don't win but it's a close game, and when Eames returns to Proclus with the season officially over, Arthur is there at his apartment, and they celebrate the start of the offseason with wild abandon.
He's waiting again, when Eames goes to the scouting combine in February. He's there for graduation when he himself gets his degree in journalism and Eames finishes in the top ten percent of his class, all because Arthur gave him the right kind of test in sophomore year. When Eames goes to the draft in April, he's still fresh enough from his explosive last season that he's a fifth-round pick drafted by the Detroit Lions. There are two games, both losses, where he gets to play in garbage time; then he's traded to the Seattle Seahawks to shore up their offense.
He spends his first season as a back-up. By his second season, he's starting.
Arthur is still waiting.
They don't go out of their way to see each other, living on virtually opposite sides of the country. Not until February, Eames' single month to himself; then he flies to Arthur in Chicago and they make up for eleven months' lost time by loving each other more fiercely than any two people could.
Not that they don't see each other any other time of the year. They both travel for their jobs. Arthur is a sports journalist with a shitty salary but certain benefits like, sometimes, being sent to Seattle to cover a game. Or sometimes he and Eames will happen to be in the same city at the same time. He still talks with Eames on the phone almost every night (and sometimes there is phone sex). Apart from all of that, Arthur is basically celibate.
He's pretty sure Eames isn't. Eames has told him about the groupies who usually loiter outside the locker room after games. Dismissively, rubbing his thumb absent-mindedly around Arthur's hip bone, he'd said, “I'd be willing to bet that Cobb's the only guy in the league not fooling around on the side.”
And that's okay, because they've agreed that their relationship should be open when they're apart. It's just that Arthur doesn't fool around at all, and maybe that's just another way he's grown up. He'd left high school as a restless teenager ready to have any number of meaningless flings with people like Robert Fischer, because sex has always been fun. But he's changed in that regard. If somebody had told his freshman seventeen-year-old self that he would voluntarily go six months without sleeping with anyone, he'd have said they were crazy; but that's Eames, really, that's just what Eames does to him. Like the lovesick young wife of a soldier in a cheesy war movie, Arthur waits.
Eames' contract lasts three years. The third year is the hardest, not least of all because of all the reports popping up on various blogs about Eames being spotted with B-list movie star Sherryn Benoit. He's pretty sure it's a ploy by Eames' agent to gain him publicity, but after all, he knows Eames is at least bisexual. He doesn't bring it up to Eames, anyway, and Eames doesn't mention it either, when they hook up in New Orleans.
Every day Arthur wakes up and imagines the day when Eames' contract will expire, imagines what it will be like to wake up to him every morning for the rest of his life. The time seems to pass slower and slower as that day approaches. And Arthur loves his job, he loves getting paid to watch football. But his life just doesn't seem full without Eames in it.
So he waits.
Eames shows up at the door of his Chicago apartment one night. It's a bye week, but Arthur wasn't expecting him tonight.
“Do I know you from somewhere?” he asks, leaning into the door, playing coy. He feels the same rush he always does when he sees Eames and he's not expecting it: all his nerves are tingling. “From TV, maybe?”
“Shut it,” Eames says, shivering from the cold outside but grinning. He dumps the duffel bag slung over his shoulder onto the floor and steps inside, slotting his freezing hands around Arthur's waist and pulling him in for a kiss.
“Oh yeah,” Arthur says, when he gets a chance to breathe. “You're that big football star.”
He doesn't get a chance to say anything more, because Eames promptly scoops him up and slings him over his shoulder, kicking the door shut. “Show-off,” Arthur huffs, as Eames carries him all the way to the bedroom and dumps him on the bed. He removes Arthur's glasses delicately and puts them on the night-stand.
“Missed you,” he says.
He seems bigger every time Arthur sees him up close. Maybe because he's used to watching Eames on TV. He's not the most heavily built guy in the league or even his team by a long shot, but he's just solid and strong, strong enough to twist out of most tackles without going down and to bull other people out of his way. He could probably break bones with those hands. Instead, he starts stripping Arthur's clothing off. Arthur lets him, perfectly compliant on his back. This is not what he'd had planned for the evening -- working on his next article with sitcom reruns playing in the background had been the main agenda -- but he's okay with the turn this evening has taken.
They don't talk very much. Over the years they've sort of mastered silent communication, letting their bodies fill in the gaps. Arthur stretches over to the table to grab a condom and lube while Eames kisses his way up Arthur's flat stomach to his neck, mouthing affectionately at the soft skin there, his body covering Arthur's own. Then Arthur flops back, allowing Eames to cup Arthur's leg under the knee and drape it over his shoulder.
But before he even uncaps the lube, he nuzzles Arthur's calf with his cheek. Stubble scratching gently at the pale flesh, he kisses his way along Arthur's knee and inner thigh, running his hand up and down the length of Arthur's leg as he does so. Arthur shivers as Eames continues to trail up his stomach, like he wants to cover every inch of Arthur's body in kisses. Like they're eighteen- and twenty-years-old again, desperately horny, like this is still new to them and they can't get enough of each other's bodies. Even though they're not kids anymore and they've had years to get their fill; even with their limited time, which mostly leads them to rush when they do get an odd night together.
Eames slicks up his fingers as his lips finally find Arthur's, forcing him to bend uncomfortably. His words slur slightly when Eames finally starts to ease a finger inside him.
“What're you do... Oh.”
Eames sits back slightly so that he can observe Arthur, taking some of the pressure off his stomach muscles. He doesn't sit back far enough that Arthur can't still feel Eames' warm breath on his face.
“I'm madly in love with you,” Eames murmurs, fingers curling just enough to make Arthur's spine arch off the bed. “Desperately. Well and truly.”
“I know,” Arthur gasps, digging his own fingers into the sheets. Eames' lips curve up.
“What gave me away?”
“Maybe the fact that you flew all the way to Chicago to see me just because you have a couple days off.”
“You?” Eames' chuckle is low and rich and velvety, wrapping around him. Arthur swears over the years that Eames' voice has only gotten deeper. “Oh no, pet, I came to Chicago for the pizza.”
“Asshole,” Arthur murmurs, letting his eyes slip shut, a smile tugging at his lip. He can feel himself breaking into a warm flush as Eames' thick fingers send little rills of pleasure down all his limbs. Eames chuckles again.
When it comes down to it, this is why Arthur could never sleep with anyone else, even when he and Eames are apart for four months and all he can do is jack himself till he's numb. It's because Eames is different. He makes this different. He knows every spot on Arthur's body that makes him shiver and every way to make him nearly sob with pleasure. But more than that; it's that they can do this, be in bed together and still be having a lazy conversation. It's that this is comfortable.
And maybe, on the other hand, that's what might attract Eames to the groupies that follow his team around, and maybe Arthur wouldn't blame him. Arthur will never get his fill of this -- being intimate -- because he's one of those people who are lucky enough to be fucking one of their best friends, but maybe Eames gets tired of it after awhile. Maybe he needs variety and the exhilaration of an anonymous hook-up, now and then.
Not Arthur, though; not ever.
He's nearly begging by the time Eames finally replaces his fingers with his cock. It's been way too long, and it hurts at first, as it always does when they've been apart for awhile, but it's a good hurt. Eames' strong hands grip his hips and shift him till he's in just the right position -- he knows how Arthur loves the feeling of being manhandled. And Arthur knows Eames loves it when he's noisy, so he drops all his inhibitions and groans, whimpers when Eames drives into him hard, dropping whined fucks into the air between their lips. And Eames keeps kissing him -- soft, wet, noisy kisses, up Arthur's thigh, up his chest, under his jaw.
“Come on, Eames, fuck me,” Arthur grits out, slinging his arm over his face. Maddeningly, Eames slows his thrusts till he's just rocking in and out at a torturous pace.
“I love you,” he says, and it's a very different tone from when he said I'm madly in love with you; it's softer, like he's afraid Arthur didn't believe him the first time. Part of Arthur still wants to laugh at such a declaration during such an act of debauchery -- they're fucking, for God's sake, Eames' cock is in his ass -- but then Eames is pushing Arthur's arm out of the way and laying kisses all over his face, and Arthur gets that warm feeling of intimacy all over again. He is so lucky.
“I love you too,” he whispers, winding a hand into Eames' hair.
Eames stop manhandling him after that. He just thrusts slowly in and out, and it's so different from their usual rushed, breathless fucks but even better, in a way. They just fuck leisurely and kiss, until Eames sits back so he can wrap a hand around Arthur, and it takes him no time at all to come after that. Then he's just a limp, boneless puddle in the sheets, Eames' lips at his throat, till Eames follows less than a minute later.
For awhile they just lie together in silence, on top of the sheets. Arthur knows he should shower, but he also knows that after they've napped for a bit, Eames will wake up and want to fuck him again. So he's content to just doze for awhile.
He rolls onto his stomach, and has almost drifted off when he feels Eames nosing under his jaw, stubble scratching his neck. He arches his back, catlike, into the hand Eames trails down his spine, and mumbles, “Fuck off. Sleeping.”
Eames just keeps kissing him more insistently, until Arthur tilts his head to give him access to his mouth. Then Eames rolls him back over, resting his forehead against Arthur's.
“We need to talk,” he says softly.
Arthur already knows what it's about and he immediately, irrationally, feels stupid and embarrassed, like he should at least be clothed for this. He's suddenly angry that he let Eames fuck him first. This is why: Eames wanted him like this, loose and placid and well-fucked, too tired to get really riled up about it. That's why he was so gentle and affectionate.
Arthur doesn't say anything. Eames' eyelashes brush his when he blinks.
“The Hawks want to renew my contract,” he says.
“That's great,” says Arthur. “How about a quote for the Tribune, Mr. Eames?”
Eames sighs and kisses him again. Arthur pushes him off and rolls over. He hears the bed creak as Eames sits up behind him.
“I knew you'd be pissed,” he says.
“I'm not pissed,” says Arthur stiffly. “I already decided a long time ago not to get in the way of your career. I'd be a hypocrite to be pissed off about it now.”
“And yet you're pissed.”
Arthur bites his lip, because he doesn't want to whine. Eames strokes his hair.
“I'll turn them down if you want me to.”
“You love your job,” says Arthur, still not rolling over to face him. “You love your team.”
“I love you more.”
Why does he have to say shit like that when Arthur just wants to be furious at him? He swallows the knot in his throat and rolls over.
“If you want to keep playing football, that's what I want, too.”
“Then why don't I just come out, once and for all?”
Arthur shakes his head immediately. “No, Eames.”
Impatiently, Eames says, “Every single day, I think about how stupid this is -- talking on the phone, pretending we barely know each other in the locker room. I could be flying you out to where I am every week, and instead we're lucky if we get to see each other every few months.”
Arthur laughs to mask the ache he feels. “Well, that's what you've got groupies for, isn't it?”
“What?”
Eames says it so sharply that Arthur instantly regrets it. He starts to shake his head, but Eames grabs him by the shoulder and pushes him onto his back so he can lean over him.
“Is that what you think?” he asks, glaring into Arthur's eyes. “You think I'm sleeping around when I'm away from you?”
“You said,” says Arthur, unable to meet his gaze, “Cobb was probably the only guy not fooling around ...”
“I meant the married guys, you prat,” says Eames angrily. “It's only you, it's only ever been you, Arthur, don't you know that by now?”
Chagrined, Arthur looks away. Eames sighs, and buries his face in Arthur's neck.
“I just miss you so much,” he says. “It doesn't make sense to me that we shouldn't be together.”
“I have a job here.”
“So get a job in Seattle!” says Eames. “You could be a sports beat writer with the Hawks, then I'd see you all the time, we could even live together--”
“No, Eames!” says Arthur again, sharply. “Everyone would find out about us, you cannot be the first openly gay football player. People wouldn't know how to react. You're a running back, you're already pretty much putting your life on the line every time you go out there without slapping a big rainbow target on your head--”
Eames jabs him in the ribs, right where he knows Arthur is ticklish, and Arthur squirms and huffs.
“You're so dramatic,” Eames says, but he looks put out, and Arthur knows he's made his point. “I just hate this. Remember last November, when you got sick, and I couldn't even fly out here for a day to cuddle you or make you soup or anything I wanted to do? I just had to listen to you coughing over the phone, and it drove me mental, Arthur. Being together should entail actually being together. I don't have to be out -- but you could still be in Seattle with me.”
“Someone would find out,” says Arthur flatly. “Remember Robert? That'll happen all over again. Someone will see us and put it together.”
“Maybe I don't care if they do,” says Eames.
“Maybe you're an idiot,” says Arthur, because he's running out of arguments, and that, at least, makes Eames grin, for a second or two. Then it fades.
“I don't know what to do,” he says. “I don't know how to choose. At least this way I have you and my job both -- but I don't have you enough, and it's making me crazy.”
“You could retire,” says Arthur, as neutrally as he can. “You could move here. Be a coach somewhere.”
Eames shakes his head, looking lost. “Tell me what to do.”
“Why do I have to tell you?”
“Because you're supposed to be the smart one,” says Eames. Arthur laughs.
“Eames,” he says, gently. “I have never been the smart one.”
+
He signs the contract.
Arthur pretends it doesn't hurt.
He's okayed to go to Seattle on opening game day, and after he lands he takes a cab to Eames' house, a big, one-story bungalow in a somewhat private community. All the same, he takes a surreptitious glance around to make sure nobody's on the street as he lets himself into Eames' home.
Eames' black Lab promptly crashes into his knees, her otter tail banging off the decorative hall table.
“Hi, Mattie,” Arthur says, dropping his suitcase so he can pet her. “Where is he?”
She licks his hand, whole body wriggling, then gallops off to the kitchen. Arthur follows her. It's empty, but once he lets her outside for a pee, he spies the note on the whiteboard hanging on the fridge.
Gone to get ready for the game. See you in the media room, darling? xoxo
Annoyed, Arthur swipes a bottle of water from the fridge and sips at it until Mattie barks to be let in. Eames couldn't even stick around to greet him after his flight? It's not like they can carpool to the stadium, but all the same, his absence stings -- especially today. The first game of a brand-new contract.
He cabs it to the stadium, anyway. It's not his place to be annoyed.
From the press box he watches as Eames sprints onto the field, lines up, makes a running play in the first down and gains six yards before he's tackled. Arthur's watching the other players too, of course; but mainly Eames. He's the most interesting, anyway. The Seahawks' fans tend to agree with this assessment: Arthur spies a lot of signs in the crowd bearing statements like, WE ♥ EAMES and WINSTON FOR THE WIN (and he really hopes Eames sees that one, if only because it will make him cringe). Eames has a lot of supporters in the crowd, and the cheering when he makes the game's first touchdown is tumultuous.
And Arthur, he's just hoping the other reporters around him can't see the way he's grinning like an idiot, since it was a wildcat play, which he knows is Eames' personal love letter to him.
His hurt at Eames' signing the contract is already fading. They both love this game; how can he fault Eames for that? Arthur would have a hell of a time giving up his own career, if it came to that.
It's not exactly a tight game, with the final score at 38-21, but close enough to hold interest through to the last quarter. After that Arthur packs up and heads down to the media room to await the team. There's nothing he particularly needs for his story, so he just takes a seat at the back to watch. Sure enough, Eames is one of the players who accompanies the coach out for the post-game press conference. When he sees Arthur, he flashes him a quick smile.
Most of the questions are routine, how does it feel to start the season with such a big win, do you think the playoffs are in the future for the Hawks this year, et cetera. Arthur reclines in his seat and waits for it to end; maybe he'll even risk driving home with Eames, the sooner to get each other's clothes off. He just wishes Eames wasn't staring at him so hard right now, chin propped in his hand absently, like he doesn't even know he's doing it. Normally Eames plays it more casually, same as Arthur; even when it's Arthur asking him a question, they go through the motions blandly, perfunctory. Today it's like Arthur is a distraction.
It's getting harder for Arthur to ignore him, so he gets up to leave surreptitiously, and that's when another journalist jabs his pen into the air and says, “Question for Mr. Eames. Your agent has refused to comment on the rumours concerning an engagement between you and Sherryn Benoit. Can you confirm or deny this?”
“An engagement?” Eames drawls, blinking. Arthur turns, and Eames is looking directly at him. “Oh, no. Sherryn and I are good friends. I have a boyfriend.”
The air leaves Arthur's lungs like it's been sucked out. He can hear the blood pumping, muffled, in his ears. He wants to be furious, he can't believe Eames just said that on national television -- but he can't be angry. Not the way Eames is looking at him. Like they're the only two people in this room, in the whole world, and it doesn't matter what anybody else thinks.
It doesn't even matter what Arthur thinks, because this was always Eames' choice to make, and he's chosen this. Arthur stands there, transfixed, heart aching. It's a good ache.
Eames smiles, a slow, lazy, confident smile, and finally looks away from Arthur and leans closer to the podium to punctuate the silence that has followed his statement.
“Any other questions?”
end.
the sequel