[Rough Trade] The Lock & The Key
Title: The Lock & The Key [Rough Trade]
Words: ~2900
Rating: R
Summary: Doubt is the lock, Faith is the key; Hate is the lock, Love is the key.
Warnings: Brief sex, references to insomnia/depression/homophobia, way too much introspection.
Author's Note: This is a coda to my personal favourite of all the fics I've written, Rough Trade, and a background knowledge of that story may help you here. This part takes place during part 2. Blame this post for making me revisit this story. Poem verse/title from 'The Lock and The Key' by Sri Chinmoy. |D
PS. I CHANGED MY THEME. Tell me what you think.
"I think you're being checked out, mate," says Yusuf, wiping down the bar with a cloth. "Five o'clock."
Eames turns his head, just briefly. The blond meets his eyes and smiles.
"Not bad," says Eames, turning back to the bar. "I've got a date tonight, though."
"Oh yes? Who with?"
Eames drains the last of his beer, and says dismissively, "You know him."
"Ah." Yusuf's tone is knowing and resigned. "The bipolar bank accountant."
"He's an investment banker. Not an accountant."
Yusuf waves a hand. "Same thing. Why do you continue to waste yourself on him, Eames?"
"He's not that bad," says Eames carefully. "You haven't seen him in awhile. He's gotten better."
Yusuf shakes his head. He doesn't like Arthur, and Eames doesn't blame him. Arthur, prickly and condescending, makes it very difficult for other people to like him. Hell, half the time Eames still doesn't. But Yusuf has other reasons. He was the one who had to pick up the pieces when Eames came to New York from Quebec, broken-hearted and destitute. He thinks Arthur will leave Eames in the same situation; but that isn't going to happen. Eames is in control this time.
That's what he tells Yusuf.
"Another drink before your date?" Yusuf asks, obviously not going to bother arguing tonight. Eames shakes his head and slides the empty beer bottle toward him.
"I'd best go. See you."
"At least you're nicer to be around when you're fucking him," he hears Yusuf grumble as he leaves.
The blond who'd been watching him slumps dejectedly when Eames leaves without acknowledging him. Eames could go back in there, take him back to his flat for a good fuck and send him home in the morning. Truth be told, though, he's been thinking about tonight ever since Arthur sent him a short text on the Tuesday: Friday night?
He's always brief, never detailed, and Eames likes to imagine him double-checking in his paranoia that he isn't accidentally sending it to the wrong person. Because he's perverse, Eames sends back, I'll be there to shag your brains out, love ;) -- just to imagine Arthur deleting it in a panic.
When he finally makes it uptown to Arthur's ritzy apartment building, punches in the code to let himself in and heads up to the twenty-fourth floor, he finds that he's beaten Arthur there. That's normal. Arthur works later than anybody else Eames knows with a regular day job. He gets himself a beer from the fridge, drops onto the leather sofa, and turns on the plasma widescreen mounted on the wall.
Being alone in Arthur's apartment is definitely no hardship. Just the thought of having Arthur again after a long Arthur-less week is enough to arouse him, and he considers taking his cock out, getting himself started before Arthur gets home. Let him walk in to the image of Eames sprawled on his expensive leather couch, jerking himself off. But he can practically hear Arthur's indignation now (what if a coworker with a telescope had been passing by and seen you masturbating all over my apartment, Eames), and he can't gauge how long it will take Arthur to get home -- sometimes he falls asleep at work, and those nights end in disappointment for Eames -- so he waits for now.
He's lucky. Within an hour, a key is scraping in the lock. Eames sits up expectantly, muting the TV. Arthur is talking when the door opens, out of sight behind a wall.
"... yes, I own it, I put a down payment on it with-- Oh ..."
He trails off, and Eames realizes two things simultaneously: Arthur is not alone, and he has only just realized that Eames is here.
There's a short silence. A female voice says, "What's wrong?"
Then Arthur's voice, louder: "I guess I forgot to turn the lights off when I left ..."
It's a warning, he wants Eames to hide, but Eames is feeling especially perverse and stays right where he is, feet propped up on the coffee table, beer bottle in hand. Arthur leads his companion in -- a pretty little blonde in a dress -- and the look he gives Eames behind her back is murderous.
"Oh!" She startles to see Eames there. "Um, Arthur--?"
"Oh," Arthur says, too. "This is ... this is Eames."
Eames waves. She looks at Arthur, confused, and Eames is enjoying this until he looks at Arthur again, too. That's when he sees the visible panic in his face.
Eames saves him.
"Hi." He sticks out a hand. "Arthur's college roommate. I'm in town for the week and he's putting me up. My plans for the evening fell through, mate," he adds to Arthur. "Sorry. I'll stay out of your way."
Relief washes away Arthur's expression, with a bit of confusion, like he isn't sure why Eames is doing this for him. His date shakes Eames' hand tentatively.
"This is Amanda," Arthur says, coming back to himself. "You know. That date I was telling you about."
The words are pointed. Eames switches off the TV and gets up. "Right," he says, with a wink. "Well. I'll leave you to it."
There's nothing in Arthur's guest room except his exercise machinery because Arthur never has guests, so Eames goes straight to his bedroom. He shuts the door, flops on the bed, and turns on the smaller TV on the dresser facing the bed. If Arthur and Amanda want to have sex, they'll have to do it around Eames.
He hears conversation from the living room for a long time, the surprisingly deep timbre of Arthur's voice and a repeated shrill, obnoxious female laugh. That maddens Eames. What could Arthur possibly be saying to make her laugh so repeatedly? Even if she's faking, he has to be saying something at least halfway funny, and that means he's making an effort, for her.
He never makes an effort for Eames.
This, Eames reminds himself, is exactly what Yusuf is afraid of, and what Eames is constantly assuring him will never happen. Eames can't require anything from Arthur. Once he comes to expect things, Arthur will only let him down. All Eames is here for is good sex, nothing else. Not conversation, not Arthur's winning personality. Just his tight little arse and the wonderful little moans that drip out of him when he's being fucked face-down into the mattress.
At least -- it used to be that way. It used to be that Eames was only stringing him along until something better came up. He'd gladly, selfishly, taken advantage of Arthur's closeted first-world issues. Arthur apparently wanted to be fucked hard, and Eames was only too glad to oblige him. And he pretends it's still that way, in front of Yusuf, but the truth is--
The truth is that something changed the second Arthur broke down drunk in that bathroom and begged Eames to fuck him, because Eames had never seen him so open, so vulnerable, so honest.
And it broke Eames' heart, a little.
He thought he'd lost whatever heart he had remaining when he left Quebec for good.
He tries to keep Arthur at arm's length. He tries. But sometimes, when he sees flickers of that honest, desperate person inside him, he wants to hold Arthur and tell him it will be okay. And when Arthur shouts at him, or stands him up on purpose, it hurts. When some stranger calls Arthur a faggot in Starbucks and he goes home and nearly loses it on Eames, shaken and panicky, Eames hurts.
He doesn't let Yusuf know. That would be admitting the truth, and admittance would make it real.
&&&
Amanda leaves at eleven o'clock.
Eames hears their voices rise, signaling the end of conversation, and eventually the front door opens and closes. He waits for Arthur to come to bed. Arthur doesn't come.
Eames leaves the bedroom. He finds Arthur perched on the couch, head buried in his hands. When Eames has been watching him for a minute or so, Arthur lets his hands slide away slowly and looks up at him.
"Sorry."
The old Arthur would not apologize. The Arthur of just a few months ago would snap at Eames, yell at him for jeopardizing his reputation like that. Some nights Arthur is too tired to be mean, doesn't see Eames as a bad guy, and Eames likes him best then. He takes a seat next to Arthur, who has dropped his head again and is grinding the heels of his palms into his eyes.
"I forgot about tonight, with you. My boss' wife set me up on this date a couple weeks ago, and I couldn't say no ..."
"It's okay," Eames says. Arthur looks at him sidelong with a weak, exhausted smile.
"I hope you weren't too bored."
"Rifling through all your valuables? Never," says Eames.
"She wanted to see my place," says Arthur distractedly. "So I had to bring her up."
"She didn't want to see your place, Arthur, she wanted to have sex with you," says Eames.
Arthur glances at him again, doubtful. "Really?"
"Yes, really. She was all over you. She laughed at everything you said. She was touching your arm, when I saw you two. She wanted you to shag her."
Arthur digests this slowly.
"She was pretty," he says at last.
"Yes, she was," Eames agrees.
"I didn't think about it," says Arthur. "Sex. With her. I didn't really think about it."
His tone is faintly accusing. I'm not the one who made you gay, Eames thinks resentfully. What he says is, "You're tired."
"Yeah." Arthur nods, rubbing at his eyes again.
"Come to bed," says Eames. And then, even though he already knows the answer he's going to get, he says, "We'll have a quickie."
Arthur shoots him a disbelieving stare. "Eames. I'm exhausted."
"It's okay. I'll do all the work."
"No," Arthur says. "I don't ... no."
He gets to his feet, swaying slightly.
"I didn't sleep last night," he admits after a pause.
Last month, Eames had gone on a five-day trip with some friends to Long Island. He'd cut the trip short for a last-minute teaching gig and arrived at Arthur's apartment on the fourth evening to find him kneeling with bloody palms amidst a mess of broken dishes on the kitchen floor, crying. He hadn't slept a wink all week and was reaching the point of hallucination.
If Eames were the type of man who didn't get invested, he would have left. Because he was a good person, once upon a time, he stayed. Because he is a fool -- because he likes Arthur even though he shouldn't -- he stayed. Arthur had fallen asleep that night, and slept for six hours while Eames cleaned up the porcelain shards and bloodstains from the kitchen.
It's not Eames himself who helps Arthur sleep, he'd first begun to realize that night. It's not the massages or the sex. It's the idea that he's there, a text or phone call away. That somebody would come in the middle of the night if Arthur asked them to.
Because Eames would, of course. Because he is a fool.
It used to be that Eames was using Arthur. Now, he's pretty sure he's letting Arthur use him.
"I need to shower," Arthur says presently.
"I'll join you."
Apparently Arthur still has the energy to roll his eyes. He vanishes down the hall, into the bathroom. Eames follows him once he hears the shower start.
Arthur's got one of those showers that looks like it was designed by NASA, but the showerhead is a gift from God, the pressure just right, and the hot water lasts a long time. It's an exquisite treat. Eames takes the liberty of joining Arthur, sliding back the glass door to find him slumped underneath the spray, zombie-eyed, not moving.
He straightens up indignantly when he sees Eames, starting warningly, "Eames," because this is something they haven't done before, and new things scare Arthur. But Eames silences him by sliding inside quickly and kissing him.
"You taste like raspberry chapstick," he says, pulling back.
"I kissed her goodnight," says Arthur, sagging in defeat.
Eames kisses him again, and again, reclaiming him, licking away the taste of this stranger. That's all it takes to stop Arthur's protests. He fights so much less against a kiss than against sex. Eames wonders how many women he'd kissed before he finally kissed Eames and thought, this feels right.
"Turn around," Eames says against his lips.
Arthur sucks in a hitching breath that sounds like a sob. "Eames, I'm tired."
"I know, pet, I know," Eames assures him. "Please just turn around."
Arthur stares at him, and the bleak exhaustion in his eyes is enough to kill Eames. He wonders, day in and day out, how it doesn't kill Arthur.
Then he turns around.
Eames picks up the soap, scrubs it over a washcloth. Winding both arms around Arthur, he rests his chin on Arthur's shoulder and starts washing his front gently. If Arthur had more energy, he would fight this. Instead, he lets his head nod against his chest and lets Eames bathe him without saying a word.
"I thought about you this week," he says, quiet and tentative, like it's something secret he has to dare himself to say aloud.
"Did you?" says Eames, dragging the washcloth over his belly. "When?"
"I don't know. When I tried to sleep."
Eames sets the washcloth down and backs him out of the water, slipping a sudsy hand between Arthur's legs. "Yeah?" he murmurs in Arthur's ear. "Did you touch yourself, when you were thinking about me?"
Arthur leans into him, despite the insistence of Eames' erection sliding between the cheeks of his arse. "You're an asshole, you know that?" he says, but Eames can see the corner of a small smile.
Once, Eames gave his heart to somebody else, and had been bitterly let down. In moments like this, here, with Arthur, he could almost feel safe.
He rubs Arthur off slowly, grinding into the cleft between his cheeks all the while; not penetrating, just rubbing against him. He thinks he feels Arthur's knees buckle a little when he comes, and supports him with a sturdy arm around his waist. It's not long after that before he's making a mess of Arthur's back, watching his come slide down the notches of his spine. Then he has to bathe Arthur all over again.
Arthur is borderline comatose by the time Eames maneuvers him out of the shower. He leads Arthur to bed, lays him down and goes looking for the sleep-clothes he's familiar with, the pyjama pants and t-shirt Arthur is sometimes conscious enough to go looking for after sex, if Eames is sleeping over. He dresses Arthur carefully, and Arthur stirs just as Eames is tucking him in.
"Thanks," he says hoarsely.
"For what?"
"Not leaving tonight."
Eames could have. He could have gone back to the bar, picked up that blond, taken him home for a boisterous fuck or two. He could have had his pick of anyone in that bar. In any bar.
And instead, he'd sat around for two hours watching TV, waiting for sex that he'd known all along probably wouldn't happen.
Sometimes he hates Arthur for doing this to him. He used to be the big cat in this relationship, masterful and predatory. Now he's no more than a fat housecat, watching the pigeons on the fire escape all day long and waiting for his master to come in through the door and toss him a treat.
He hates Arthur for leaving him dangling all the time. Hates him for being so terrified to be seen with Eames. Hates Arthur for hurting him, Eames, to make himself feel better. Most of all, he hates Arthur for hating himself.
But in these moments, with Arthur offering him a feeble, lopsided smile, the only way he knows how to say I like you and I don't know how to tell you, and you're the only person in my life I can count on and if you left I don't know what I'd do, Eames could almost forget all of that. He could forget all his past hurts, all his bitterness, when Arthur lets him in.
In these moments, he wishes he was enough to make Arthur happy. But maybe nothing can do that.
"Of course I didn't leave," he says, with false bluster. "Who else would make sure you got your beauty rest?"
"Don't steal my stuff while I'm asleep," Arthur says, a tired joke, just before he drifts off.
"Of course not," Eames says quietly, but it's a lie. If he could, he'd steal Arthur's heart any way he knew how, because that's the only way he'll leave this with his own intact.
He tells Yusuf he's in control, and he wants to be, but he's not. He hasn't been for a long time. He used to hold all the cards in this arrangement, and now he has nothing. He's given all of himself over to Arthur -- Arthur, a self-loathing time-bomb who is bound to go off sooner or later.
And God help him, Eames just can't stay away anymore.
He does the only thing he can do at this point: He goes to sleep next to Arthur, and wishes for one more day, one more night, one more second with him before the inevitable blow that will wreck them both.
Words: ~2900
Rating: R
Summary: Doubt is the lock, Faith is the key; Hate is the lock, Love is the key.
Warnings: Brief sex, references to insomnia/depression/homophobia, way too much introspection.
Author's Note: This is a coda to my personal favourite of all the fics I've written, Rough Trade, and a background knowledge of that story may help you here. This part takes place during part 2. Blame this post for making me revisit this story. Poem verse/title from 'The Lock and The Key' by Sri Chinmoy. |D
PS. I CHANGED MY THEME. Tell me what you think.
"I think you're being checked out, mate," says Yusuf, wiping down the bar with a cloth. "Five o'clock."
Eames turns his head, just briefly. The blond meets his eyes and smiles.
"Not bad," says Eames, turning back to the bar. "I've got a date tonight, though."
"Oh yes? Who with?"
Eames drains the last of his beer, and says dismissively, "You know him."
"Ah." Yusuf's tone is knowing and resigned. "The bipolar bank accountant."
"He's an investment banker. Not an accountant."
Yusuf waves a hand. "Same thing. Why do you continue to waste yourself on him, Eames?"
"He's not that bad," says Eames carefully. "You haven't seen him in awhile. He's gotten better."
Yusuf shakes his head. He doesn't like Arthur, and Eames doesn't blame him. Arthur, prickly and condescending, makes it very difficult for other people to like him. Hell, half the time Eames still doesn't. But Yusuf has other reasons. He was the one who had to pick up the pieces when Eames came to New York from Quebec, broken-hearted and destitute. He thinks Arthur will leave Eames in the same situation; but that isn't going to happen. Eames is in control this time.
That's what he tells Yusuf.
"Another drink before your date?" Yusuf asks, obviously not going to bother arguing tonight. Eames shakes his head and slides the empty beer bottle toward him.
"I'd best go. See you."
"At least you're nicer to be around when you're fucking him," he hears Yusuf grumble as he leaves.
The blond who'd been watching him slumps dejectedly when Eames leaves without acknowledging him. Eames could go back in there, take him back to his flat for a good fuck and send him home in the morning. Truth be told, though, he's been thinking about tonight ever since Arthur sent him a short text on the Tuesday: Friday night?
He's always brief, never detailed, and Eames likes to imagine him double-checking in his paranoia that he isn't accidentally sending it to the wrong person. Because he's perverse, Eames sends back, I'll be there to shag your brains out, love ;) -- just to imagine Arthur deleting it in a panic.
When he finally makes it uptown to Arthur's ritzy apartment building, punches in the code to let himself in and heads up to the twenty-fourth floor, he finds that he's beaten Arthur there. That's normal. Arthur works later than anybody else Eames knows with a regular day job. He gets himself a beer from the fridge, drops onto the leather sofa, and turns on the plasma widescreen mounted on the wall.
Being alone in Arthur's apartment is definitely no hardship. Just the thought of having Arthur again after a long Arthur-less week is enough to arouse him, and he considers taking his cock out, getting himself started before Arthur gets home. Let him walk in to the image of Eames sprawled on his expensive leather couch, jerking himself off. But he can practically hear Arthur's indignation now (what if a coworker with a telescope had been passing by and seen you masturbating all over my apartment, Eames), and he can't gauge how long it will take Arthur to get home -- sometimes he falls asleep at work, and those nights end in disappointment for Eames -- so he waits for now.
He's lucky. Within an hour, a key is scraping in the lock. Eames sits up expectantly, muting the TV. Arthur is talking when the door opens, out of sight behind a wall.
"... yes, I own it, I put a down payment on it with-- Oh ..."
He trails off, and Eames realizes two things simultaneously: Arthur is not alone, and he has only just realized that Eames is here.
There's a short silence. A female voice says, "What's wrong?"
Then Arthur's voice, louder: "I guess I forgot to turn the lights off when I left ..."
It's a warning, he wants Eames to hide, but Eames is feeling especially perverse and stays right where he is, feet propped up on the coffee table, beer bottle in hand. Arthur leads his companion in -- a pretty little blonde in a dress -- and the look he gives Eames behind her back is murderous.
"Oh!" She startles to see Eames there. "Um, Arthur--?"
"Oh," Arthur says, too. "This is ... this is Eames."
Eames waves. She looks at Arthur, confused, and Eames is enjoying this until he looks at Arthur again, too. That's when he sees the visible panic in his face.
Eames saves him.
"Hi." He sticks out a hand. "Arthur's college roommate. I'm in town for the week and he's putting me up. My plans for the evening fell through, mate," he adds to Arthur. "Sorry. I'll stay out of your way."
Relief washes away Arthur's expression, with a bit of confusion, like he isn't sure why Eames is doing this for him. His date shakes Eames' hand tentatively.
"This is Amanda," Arthur says, coming back to himself. "You know. That date I was telling you about."
The words are pointed. Eames switches off the TV and gets up. "Right," he says, with a wink. "Well. I'll leave you to it."
There's nothing in Arthur's guest room except his exercise machinery because Arthur never has guests, so Eames goes straight to his bedroom. He shuts the door, flops on the bed, and turns on the smaller TV on the dresser facing the bed. If Arthur and Amanda want to have sex, they'll have to do it around Eames.
He hears conversation from the living room for a long time, the surprisingly deep timbre of Arthur's voice and a repeated shrill, obnoxious female laugh. That maddens Eames. What could Arthur possibly be saying to make her laugh so repeatedly? Even if she's faking, he has to be saying something at least halfway funny, and that means he's making an effort, for her.
He never makes an effort for Eames.
This, Eames reminds himself, is exactly what Yusuf is afraid of, and what Eames is constantly assuring him will never happen. Eames can't require anything from Arthur. Once he comes to expect things, Arthur will only let him down. All Eames is here for is good sex, nothing else. Not conversation, not Arthur's winning personality. Just his tight little arse and the wonderful little moans that drip out of him when he's being fucked face-down into the mattress.
At least -- it used to be that way. It used to be that Eames was only stringing him along until something better came up. He'd gladly, selfishly, taken advantage of Arthur's closeted first-world issues. Arthur apparently wanted to be fucked hard, and Eames was only too glad to oblige him. And he pretends it's still that way, in front of Yusuf, but the truth is--
The truth is that something changed the second Arthur broke down drunk in that bathroom and begged Eames to fuck him, because Eames had never seen him so open, so vulnerable, so honest.
And it broke Eames' heart, a little.
He thought he'd lost whatever heart he had remaining when he left Quebec for good.
He tries to keep Arthur at arm's length. He tries. But sometimes, when he sees flickers of that honest, desperate person inside him, he wants to hold Arthur and tell him it will be okay. And when Arthur shouts at him, or stands him up on purpose, it hurts. When some stranger calls Arthur a faggot in Starbucks and he goes home and nearly loses it on Eames, shaken and panicky, Eames hurts.
He doesn't let Yusuf know. That would be admitting the truth, and admittance would make it real.
&&&
Amanda leaves at eleven o'clock.
Eames hears their voices rise, signaling the end of conversation, and eventually the front door opens and closes. He waits for Arthur to come to bed. Arthur doesn't come.
Eames leaves the bedroom. He finds Arthur perched on the couch, head buried in his hands. When Eames has been watching him for a minute or so, Arthur lets his hands slide away slowly and looks up at him.
"Sorry."
The old Arthur would not apologize. The Arthur of just a few months ago would snap at Eames, yell at him for jeopardizing his reputation like that. Some nights Arthur is too tired to be mean, doesn't see Eames as a bad guy, and Eames likes him best then. He takes a seat next to Arthur, who has dropped his head again and is grinding the heels of his palms into his eyes.
"I forgot about tonight, with you. My boss' wife set me up on this date a couple weeks ago, and I couldn't say no ..."
"It's okay," Eames says. Arthur looks at him sidelong with a weak, exhausted smile.
"I hope you weren't too bored."
"Rifling through all your valuables? Never," says Eames.
"She wanted to see my place," says Arthur distractedly. "So I had to bring her up."
"She didn't want to see your place, Arthur, she wanted to have sex with you," says Eames.
Arthur glances at him again, doubtful. "Really?"
"Yes, really. She was all over you. She laughed at everything you said. She was touching your arm, when I saw you two. She wanted you to shag her."
Arthur digests this slowly.
"She was pretty," he says at last.
"Yes, she was," Eames agrees.
"I didn't think about it," says Arthur. "Sex. With her. I didn't really think about it."
His tone is faintly accusing. I'm not the one who made you gay, Eames thinks resentfully. What he says is, "You're tired."
"Yeah." Arthur nods, rubbing at his eyes again.
"Come to bed," says Eames. And then, even though he already knows the answer he's going to get, he says, "We'll have a quickie."
Arthur shoots him a disbelieving stare. "Eames. I'm exhausted."
"It's okay. I'll do all the work."
"No," Arthur says. "I don't ... no."
He gets to his feet, swaying slightly.
"I didn't sleep last night," he admits after a pause.
Last month, Eames had gone on a five-day trip with some friends to Long Island. He'd cut the trip short for a last-minute teaching gig and arrived at Arthur's apartment on the fourth evening to find him kneeling with bloody palms amidst a mess of broken dishes on the kitchen floor, crying. He hadn't slept a wink all week and was reaching the point of hallucination.
If Eames were the type of man who didn't get invested, he would have left. Because he was a good person, once upon a time, he stayed. Because he is a fool -- because he likes Arthur even though he shouldn't -- he stayed. Arthur had fallen asleep that night, and slept for six hours while Eames cleaned up the porcelain shards and bloodstains from the kitchen.
It's not Eames himself who helps Arthur sleep, he'd first begun to realize that night. It's not the massages or the sex. It's the idea that he's there, a text or phone call away. That somebody would come in the middle of the night if Arthur asked them to.
Because Eames would, of course. Because he is a fool.
It used to be that Eames was using Arthur. Now, he's pretty sure he's letting Arthur use him.
"I need to shower," Arthur says presently.
"I'll join you."
Apparently Arthur still has the energy to roll his eyes. He vanishes down the hall, into the bathroom. Eames follows him once he hears the shower start.
Arthur's got one of those showers that looks like it was designed by NASA, but the showerhead is a gift from God, the pressure just right, and the hot water lasts a long time. It's an exquisite treat. Eames takes the liberty of joining Arthur, sliding back the glass door to find him slumped underneath the spray, zombie-eyed, not moving.
He straightens up indignantly when he sees Eames, starting warningly, "Eames," because this is something they haven't done before, and new things scare Arthur. But Eames silences him by sliding inside quickly and kissing him.
"You taste like raspberry chapstick," he says, pulling back.
"I kissed her goodnight," says Arthur, sagging in defeat.
Eames kisses him again, and again, reclaiming him, licking away the taste of this stranger. That's all it takes to stop Arthur's protests. He fights so much less against a kiss than against sex. Eames wonders how many women he'd kissed before he finally kissed Eames and thought, this feels right.
"Turn around," Eames says against his lips.
Arthur sucks in a hitching breath that sounds like a sob. "Eames, I'm tired."
"I know, pet, I know," Eames assures him. "Please just turn around."
Arthur stares at him, and the bleak exhaustion in his eyes is enough to kill Eames. He wonders, day in and day out, how it doesn't kill Arthur.
Then he turns around.
Eames picks up the soap, scrubs it over a washcloth. Winding both arms around Arthur, he rests his chin on Arthur's shoulder and starts washing his front gently. If Arthur had more energy, he would fight this. Instead, he lets his head nod against his chest and lets Eames bathe him without saying a word.
"I thought about you this week," he says, quiet and tentative, like it's something secret he has to dare himself to say aloud.
"Did you?" says Eames, dragging the washcloth over his belly. "When?"
"I don't know. When I tried to sleep."
Eames sets the washcloth down and backs him out of the water, slipping a sudsy hand between Arthur's legs. "Yeah?" he murmurs in Arthur's ear. "Did you touch yourself, when you were thinking about me?"
Arthur leans into him, despite the insistence of Eames' erection sliding between the cheeks of his arse. "You're an asshole, you know that?" he says, but Eames can see the corner of a small smile.
Once, Eames gave his heart to somebody else, and had been bitterly let down. In moments like this, here, with Arthur, he could almost feel safe.
He rubs Arthur off slowly, grinding into the cleft between his cheeks all the while; not penetrating, just rubbing against him. He thinks he feels Arthur's knees buckle a little when he comes, and supports him with a sturdy arm around his waist. It's not long after that before he's making a mess of Arthur's back, watching his come slide down the notches of his spine. Then he has to bathe Arthur all over again.
Arthur is borderline comatose by the time Eames maneuvers him out of the shower. He leads Arthur to bed, lays him down and goes looking for the sleep-clothes he's familiar with, the pyjama pants and t-shirt Arthur is sometimes conscious enough to go looking for after sex, if Eames is sleeping over. He dresses Arthur carefully, and Arthur stirs just as Eames is tucking him in.
"Thanks," he says hoarsely.
"For what?"
"Not leaving tonight."
Eames could have. He could have gone back to the bar, picked up that blond, taken him home for a boisterous fuck or two. He could have had his pick of anyone in that bar. In any bar.
And instead, he'd sat around for two hours watching TV, waiting for sex that he'd known all along probably wouldn't happen.
Sometimes he hates Arthur for doing this to him. He used to be the big cat in this relationship, masterful and predatory. Now he's no more than a fat housecat, watching the pigeons on the fire escape all day long and waiting for his master to come in through the door and toss him a treat.
He hates Arthur for leaving him dangling all the time. Hates him for being so terrified to be seen with Eames. Hates Arthur for hurting him, Eames, to make himself feel better. Most of all, he hates Arthur for hating himself.
But in these moments, with Arthur offering him a feeble, lopsided smile, the only way he knows how to say I like you and I don't know how to tell you, and you're the only person in my life I can count on and if you left I don't know what I'd do, Eames could almost forget all of that. He could forget all his past hurts, all his bitterness, when Arthur lets him in.
In these moments, he wishes he was enough to make Arthur happy. But maybe nothing can do that.
"Of course I didn't leave," he says, with false bluster. "Who else would make sure you got your beauty rest?"
"Don't steal my stuff while I'm asleep," Arthur says, a tired joke, just before he drifts off.
"Of course not," Eames says quietly, but it's a lie. If he could, he'd steal Arthur's heart any way he knew how, because that's the only way he'll leave this with his own intact.
He tells Yusuf he's in control, and he wants to be, but he's not. He hasn't been for a long time. He used to hold all the cards in this arrangement, and now he has nothing. He's given all of himself over to Arthur -- Arthur, a self-loathing time-bomb who is bound to go off sooner or later.
And God help him, Eames just can't stay away anymore.
He does the only thing he can do at this point: He goes to sleep next to Arthur, and wishes for one more day, one more night, one more second with him before the inevitable blow that will wreck them both.