Rough Trade coda II
What's up homies, I have a quick poll! Would anyone be interested in finding out about Arthur's birth parents in the PBell verse, even if it was depressing? I'm sort of waffling about writing it even though half of it is done. This is probably a dumb question, but I generally try to keep angst out of my PBell and I'm wondering if this would basically despoil it for anyone xD Anyway, to the main event!
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~5300
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Homophobia, basically pwp
Author's Note: Another Rough Trade coda taking place during the main story. keelain wanted to know in the comments of the other coda what sex in this verse would be like between Eames and an Arthur who didn't hate him, and Whisky seeks to deliver! (read: was weak, again). Obviously this one takes place several months after the other (shortly before Arthur runs to Australia in the main story). ENJOY THE ~FEELINGS.
It's 8:47PM when Arthur's BlackBerry pings, startling him.
< Eames > im at ur place. where r u?
Arthur's surprised to note the time. He hasn't been paying attention. He types back swiftly.
< Arthur > Sorry. Got caught up at work. Be home later. Will you wait?
He hesitates before adding that last part. He really wants to see Eames tonight. The phone pings.
< Eames > alrite. see u then
“Hey, Arthur.” It's Wes, one of his coworkers, popping his head around the door to Arthur's office. “We're getting Chinese. You want an egg roll?”
Arthur tucks his phone away quickly. “Yeah, sure.”
It's almost useless getting back to work now that he knows Eames is at his place, waiting for him. Maybe he's in bed, slicking up his cock for Arthur already, and-
He has to shutter his brain against those thoughts. It's too distracting. But-it's already been five days since the last time they saw each other. He wants to tell Eames that he got a full night's sleep last night, on his own. Eames will know what an accomplishment it is.
But first, he really wants to eat. He joins his colleagues when the food arrives, its smell reaching him before Wes' email does. When Arthur takes a seat, Wes is taking each dish out of the paper take-away bag. There's only a few of them there, this late at night. Nash hands out styrofoam plates-Arthur takes his and thinks forcibly of Eames, who would be scandalized by this offense against the environment-and as he's passing a plate to Chris, the only female in the room, Nash says, “Hey, Chris, I got a good one for you. Why couldn't Helen Keller drive?”
Chris rolls her eyes. Wes looks up expectantly, and Nash finishes, “Because she was a woman!”
He cracks up laughing at his own joke. “Grow up, Nash,” Chris says.
“Well, I can't tell black or Jew jokes with these two here,” says Nash, gesturing at Wes and Arthur impatiently.
“I don't even practise,” Arthur reminds him.
“You can't tell a joke without offending someone these days,” says Nash. He heaps a pile of fried rice onto his plate, and the rest of them start helping themselves. Arthur has barely started eating when Nash perks up and says, “Okay, I got one. How do you get four faggots to share a barstool?”
Arthur stiffens slightly and looks at him.
“You flip it upside down,” Nash says, and starts laughing again. Wes chuckles.
Six months ago Arthur would have forced a short laugh, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, because fags were still “them” six months ago-not him. Now the line's a little blurrier, though, so he does nothing.
“You don't like that one, Art?” Nash says. “Okay, how's this: How many faggots does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”
“Jesus, Nash,” says Arthur.
“Just one,” Nash finishes, “but it takes a whole ER to get it back out.”
Even Chris cracks a smile, for a second. Nash and Wes are both laughing, and something is stirring inside Arthur, a defensiveness he didn't know he possessed.
“Look, would you just lay off?” he snaps.
“What's the matter?” Nash demands. “I don't see any queers in the room. Do you?”
“I have a friend who's gay,” Arthur says.
He goes back to eating, and doesn't realize they're still watching him until Nash says, “And?”
“And nothing,” says Arthur, shrugging uncomfortably. “He's a supply teacher. He lives in the East Village. He's a nice guy.”
“Remind me not to send my future kids to school in the East Village,” Nash says, and cracks up again. Arthur bristles and glares at him, and Nash shrugs, grinning. “Come on, lighten up. I'm just kidding. I didn't know I was offending your delicate sensibilities, Arthur. From now on I promise to only tell tasteful faggot jokes.”
Arthur gets up and takes his plate with him, quietly. On his way out the door he hears Nash say, “Learn to take a joke, you fag.”
It's just a spiteful, childish dig, and it doesn't set Arthur off the way it would have a few short months ago. Still, the food tastes bitter in his mouth, and he gets only half of it down before dumping the rest in the trash and packing up his computer. There's no point staying any later; he's not going to get anything done. He doesn't say goodbye to them on his way out.
When he gets home, he finds Eames sprawled on the couch and watching TV. He's in a t-shirt, sweatpants and socks, lending to Arthur's theory that Eames is hiding some spare clothes in the apartment somewhere, because he probably didn't get on the train looking like that. He looks up at Arthur and switches the TV off in the same motion, smiling.
“You're home earlier than I expected,” he says.
Arthur looks at him and thinks, distantly, about Nash calling him a fag. Then he crosses the room, shedding his coat as he goes, and gets on the couch next to Eames so that he can slot their mouths together. Eames gives a soft mmm and reaches up to clasp Arthur's face. Arthur kisses him needily, possessively, and it's still better than any kiss he's ever had.
When he breaks off, breathing lightly, Eames says, “That's a hell of a greeting.”
Arthur touches the faded sweatpants, groping between Eames' legs. “Let's go to bed.”
Eames is happy to follow him. They get in the bedroom and start stripping quickly, not bothering to get in one another's way. Arthur gets on the bed and feels Eames land on top of him, nosing at the back of his neck.
“I missed you,” he says.
“I missed your dick,” Arthur replies.
“So mean, Arthur.” Eames nuzzles him, trapping him against the bed with superior bulk. “Do you know how dreadfully mean you are?”
Arthur rolls over, awkwardly, so he can touch his fingers to Eames' lips. “Guess I missed this too.”
“My dulcet voice?”
“I was thinking of your cock-sucking lips. But I do like the way you say my name.”
“So mean,” Eames says against his neck, teeth scraping him in a grin. “But you know all my love is for this.”
His thumb rubs a small circle around Arthur's hole, and Arthur can feel the way his body flexes hungrily for it. He hisses softly. Eames sits back, and moves his hand up to Arthur's cock, stroking lightly.
“I suppose I could spare some love for this, too,” he says, and leans down to wrap his lips around it. Arthur squirms around, so that Eames has to pin his hips with both hands, and then he goes still and closes his eyes, sighing.
It becomes evident after a minute that he isn't going to get any more than partly hard. It starts to become embarrassing, and he covers his face with one hand, trying to just give in to Eames' ministrations.
“Eames,” he says, humiliated, at last.
Eames pulls off, still jerking him absently. “It's a no-go, then?”
“Sorry,” Arthur says through clenched teeth.
“Don't be.” Eames pulls his hand away so he can look Arthur in the eyes. “It happens. You've had a long week. That's one of the nice things about a same-sex relationship: no need to explain yourself. Do you want a massage?”
Arthur shakes his head. “Sorry,” he says again. He swallows, self-conscious, and adds quietly, “I was looking forward to this.”
“Never mind,” Eames says, laying a kiss on his forehead and then rolling off to the side. “You don't need an erection to have the stuffing fucked out of you.”
Arthur snorts a laugh, a sound which is promptly swallowed up by Eames' mouth. They kiss like that for a while, lying on their sides, and Eames lets his hand wander, tracing Arthur's ribs, lingering over sensitive spots. Nobody knows Arthur's body better than Eames, maybe not even Arthur himself. He's discovered so many sensitive spots he never even knew existed.
He stifles a whine when Eames leans away to grab the lube off the bedside table, but then Eames slicks his fingers and hooks one arm under Arthur's leg, lifting it so as to gain access to his hole with two fingers, too much too fast as usual. Arthur sighs, a strained sound, and tries to relax for him.
“That's it,” Eames murmurs, his brow furrowed slightly with focus. Their faces are still very close together. Arthur finds himself reaching up to trace the pads of his fingers lightly over Eames' lips-so much like a woman's, soft and thick and pink. He looks at Eames' eyes, the green-grey, the long eyelashes, and those are feminine too.
Then he moves his hand, and his palm rasps against Eames' stubble. He trails it down, down Eames' throat and over his chest hair. He plays idly with the hair that runs down Eames' navel, brushing it up and down, wondering at its softness and at the hard muscle under the flesh. Eames is not unattractive for a man, he thinks, body hair and ugly tattoos and all. When Arthur first started doing this-anonymous rough exchanges with other men-they were always older, heavier men, the sort who would use him up and send him slinking home after, awash in self-loathing. That was his punishment, to be fucked by men who weren't even attractive-just be their hot little bit for the night.
He thinks Eames could be attractive, though. He touches his stomach, marvelling at how hard it is. Just below his hand lies Eames' prick, full and heavy on the bedcovers, the crown flushed dark. Arthur touches that too, only briefly, somewhat familiar by now. He knows the soft, wrinkled foreskin, the contrastingly smooth, shiny head that gets all slick and red when Arthur licks at it for awhile, more sensitive than his own glans. He skims his fingertips down, just brushing Eames' balls, then pulls his hand away.
He realizes, when he raises his gaze, that Eames is watching him.
“Did you forget what a naked man in your bed looks like, kitten?” he asks softly, his gaze searching.
Arthur shakes his head. He can feel himself opening to Eames' fingers, like a lock to a key. “You leave a pretty strong impression,” he says.
“Just in case,” Eames says, and with his free hand he takes Arthur's wrist and returns it to his cock. He's pushing Arthur, wanting to see if he'll back off. Arthur holds his gaze and starts stroking him, sliding a firm hand up and down, remembering how Eames likes to be touched. Eames' soft lips curl into a smile.
The last time Nash had been running his mouth at work, and Arthur had taken it out on Eames (as if it were Eames' fault, any of it), Eames had asked, “Why don't you just tell him to stop?” Not worth it, Arthur said, and Eames replied, “Maybe you have another colleague who's in the closet and doesn't want to say anything and you'd be doing him a favour.” “Or maybe,” Arthur had snarled, well and truly angry at him for no rational reason, “you want me to go marching into work wearing a rainbow flag and announce to everyone that I let some fucking thug with no job fuck me in the ass every other night, maybe that's what you want.”
He still remembers the startled look on Eames' face. Startled, even though Arthur had given him every reason to expect that kind of viciousness. He tucks his head into Eames' neck now, silently apologizing. Arthur's life is a mess, but at least he knows how much messier it could get. He can't believe Eames has stuck with him all these months-like he knew all along that if he prised Arthur open just gently enough they could be here, lying in bed together; not fighting, just touching each other.
“Thanks for still being here,” he mumbles into Eames' chest, sort of hating himself for saying it.
“Well, I wasn't going to head home after I rode the train all the way up here,” Eames says, not understanding, and Arthur doesn't correct him. He just lets Eames kiss him again, and they do that, lazily, for awhile.
Eames removes his fingers suddenly, takes Arthur by the hips and rolls, pulling Arthur on top. Arthur squirms in discomfort until his cock isn't in danger of brushing against Eames'-a stupid issue to have, after everything, but old habits die hard and he's still very much out of his element here. He looks at the covers rather than at the sculpted planes of Eames' stomach.
“Go on,” Eames says, settling back against the pillows to watch.
There's something about doing things like this with Eames that are ferociously yet queasily arousing to Arthur, like watching particularly filthy porn and feeling somehow ashamed about it afterward. They've never tried this position before. Arthur's still warming up to the notion of fucking face-to-face. Sitting on top of Eames like this, there is no way for him to pretend he's doing anything but having sex with a man; and it turns him on far more than it should, even knowing he'll feel a little ill about it after.
He decides it's worth it, and guides Eames' naked cock between his legs. He bites his lip as forces the head in-still such a tight fit, after all this time-closes his eyes and lowers himself unsteadily. He's hard himself now, his cock flushed an angry red, and as he sinks down on Eames it pulses out a thin stream of precome.
“That seemed to do the trick,” Eames murmurs, thumbing Arthur's cock.
“Don't-touch,” Arthur says shakily, startled into stopping. “Just-give me a minute.”
Eames stops, lets Arthur sit there on his cock and shiver and try to reorient his senses. The room spins weakly around him. He wonders if all the blood flooding to his cock has left him lightheaded. It's not just arousal. His heart pounds and his stomach churns and he recognizes anxiety, too.
He remembers what Eames said the first time he brought up missionary position and Arthur had shot him down. Afraid you'll like it?
He takes deep breaths. Thinks about Nash calling him a fag. He opens his eyes and thinks, viciously, Fine. So I'll be a fag. But he can't move.
“You alright?” Eames asks under him. He waits for a response, and when none comes, gently, he pulls Arthur off and rolls him over again. Arthur can feel him groping around; he comes back with a pillow and slides it under Arthur's hips. Then he lifts one of Arthur's legs up under the knee, and pushes back in. Arthur sighs, letting his head fall back. He likes this. He doesn't have to think about anything, like this.
“I'm good,” he says. Eames leans down and kisses him, then starts moving, rocking his hips a little roughly.
“You're so gorgeous,” he growls softly. “Look at you.”
Arthur cracks one eye open, smiling. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
Eames just grins wolfishly, rapidly losing the brain function required to put words together. He finds Arthur's mouth again for another, sloppier kiss, then leans back a bit and starts thrusting in harder, looking down to watch where he's plundering Arthur's pliant body. It gives Arthur a chance to watch Eames, the sheen of sweat on his body, the flex of his muscles, the ripple of his horrible tattoos. Yes, he likes this. It's still just crazy enough, for him, that it makes him stupidly hot without also adding those unpleasant queasy feelings to the mix, and he starts jerking himself with a groan of relief, pushing his hips up into Eames'.
“That's it,” Eames murmurs, because he thinks he still needs to encourage Arthur, or maybe he doesn't realize he's speaking aloud. “Yeah, yeah, that's it.”
Very soon he's snapping his hips hard until Arthur is panting, scrabbling weakly at Eames' shoulder in pain; a good, sweet pain, the kind only Eames can bring him. He takes his other hand off his cock to brace against the rattling headboard, teeth clenched and eyes squeezed shut; not because he can't watch, but against the strain of Eames' girth. It's only been five days, but he's never prepared for the brutal stretch. Eames leans down to nuzzle at him, stubble scratching Arthur's face, and it's definitely Arthur's sweat that dampens his neck, not tears, never tears.
His nails clench tighter in Eames' back when Eames finds the sweet spot-it never takes him long-and Eames slows a bit, dragging his cockhead against Arthur's insides, positively milking his prostate until Arthur comes with a feeble, punched-out sound. After that he goes pliant and limp, squirming and gasping when Eames keeps fucking him right there, until Eames comes, too, with a long groan.
He waits a few seconds and then pulls out, leaving Arthur fucked-open and wet, and drops onto the mattress at Arthur's side. They both catch their breath, sweat cooling on their bodies. Arthur stares up at the ceiling dazedly.
“Here.” Eames startles him, having snagged one of the towels Arthur keeps on the bedside table, now rolling over to wipe away the mess on Arthur's stomach and between his legs. Arthur lets him. Eames puts it aside when he's done, and curls up against Arthur's side, pressing lazy kisses to his neck and shoulder. Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, takes a deep breath.
“Nash was being stupid at work again,” he says when several minutes have passed. Eames has stopped kissing and is idly stroking the soft line of hair on Arthur's naval. His fingers don't falter.
“Did you say anything to him?”
“Yeah,” Arthur says. “I told him to lay off. I said I know a gay guy.”
“And what did he say?”
“He called me a fag.”
“Charming.” Eames presses another kiss to Arthur's neck. “I'd like to meet this Nash, I think.” He pauses thoughtfully, then says, “I'm very proud of you, Arthur.”
“You are?”
“Yes, I am. What would you have done if Nash had called you a fag a few months ago, hm?”
Arthur forces a weak, embarrassed laugh. “Come home and yelled at you for making me gay.”
“Right,” says Eames. “But you stood up for yourself.”
“Not really,” Arthur mutters, eyes downcast. “I stood up for the gay guy I know who lives in the East Village.”
Eames stops petting him. “Arthur, do you think you'll ever be able to come out? To anyone?”
“Maybe my brother, one day ...” Just thinking about it makes him feel sick, all those self-loathing feelings simmering back up to the surface, filling him with shame. He closes his eyes again. “No. I can't. If it got back to my coworkers ...”
“You've come so far already,” Eames murmurs softly. Arthur's hair is coming loose, damp and curling with sweat; Eames brushes it off his face. A lump rises in Arthur's throat.
“This isn't permanent,” he reminds Eames firmly. Eames withdraws his hand.
“I know that,” he says after a pause.
“Do you? Because the way you act, Eames, like we're ...”
“Boyfriends?” Eames says. Arthur huffs a sigh.
“Yes, Eames. Like we're boyfriends.”
“Aren't we?” Eames asks. His voice is rising.
“I don't know,” says Arthur. “I don't want to think about it, okay, I don't like thinking about it.” Eames says nothing, and Arthur hurries to fill the silence. “Look, can we not fight tonight? I don't want to fight, Eames.”
“Neither do I,” says Eames.
“Doesn't this work? Can't we just be happy like this?”
“Sneaking around like I'm your mistress, not even able to go out for dinner like normal people, yeah, this works,” Eames says, and then, abruptly, he demands: “Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Happy?”
“Yeah,” Arthur says, thinking about it. “I mean, I'm happy sometimes, like when I'm with you... Fuck.” He sighs and scrubs a palm over his face. His brain is still catching up after that orgasm. “That sounded less stupid in my head. I just mean I'm not happy at work, and usually when I'm not at the office I'm with you. That's what I meant.”
“Right. I know,” says Eames.
Arthur sighs again, and climbs out of bed. “I'm going to shower.” He hesitates a second, and adds, as a peace offering, “Are you coming?”
Eames is more than happy to follow him into the shower. He doesn't seem upset by their conversation, fortunately. In fact, he goes right back to normal, which in this instance means humming some slow tune, grinding his hips from side to side against Arthur's ass absent-mindedly while giving him a shampoo mohawk. Arthur tolerates this, even when Eames wraps both arms around him from behind and sways back and forth with him, still humming, then twirls him carefully so that they're face to face.
“Why are we dancing?” Arthur asks, now with a hand clasped in Eames' and the other on Eames' shoulder. Eames' other hand is resting at Arthur's lower back, but it's trailing lower and lower.
“You never dance in the shower?” Eames says, raising his eyebrows. “I don't believe you.”
Arthur missteps and nearly slips on the slick porcelain. He pulls his hand away. “I can't do this if I'm not leading.”
“Lead, then,” Eames suggests, and goes back to humming. He removes his hand from Arthur's ass, places Arthur's hand on his back, and then puts his palm on Arthur's shoulder. Arthur bites back a laugh.
“You have an answer for everything, don't you?” he asks wryly.
“Everything,” Eames says gravely.
They stop for a minute so that Arthur can rinse out his hair, but the water is still comfortingly hot, so Eames pulls him back into an embrace and Arthur lets him, leading again. “I feel like I'm at the prom,” Arthur says.
“Your date was never as pretty as me, was she?” Eames purrs, resting his head on Arthur's shoulder. Arthur rolls his eyes, smiling.
“Her dick wasn't as big.”
“Mmm.” Eames lays a sucking kiss on his shoulder. “Arthur likes it big.”
“Tits were nicer, though,” Arthur says.
They're still circling, slowly. Eames lifts his head, watching Arthur with a darkly amused expression.
“Did you have sex with her, after?” he asks. “Did you take her to a pretty hotel room and fuck her, Arthur?”
Arthur shakes his head. Eames' voice drops, becoming even throatier.
“Would you take me to a hotel and fuck me?”
Arthur swallows and shakes his head jerkily, looking away for a second. Then he brings his gaze back to Eames' eyes. “I like when you do the fucking.”
Eames smiles predatorily and kisses him in a way that makes Arthur feel very much as though he isn't doing the leading at all. His hand slides between them, cupping Arthur's soft cock, and then rubbing, his hand nice and wet and hot from the water. Then he sinks to his knees, water cascading down his brawny back and shoulder muscles, and engulfs Arthur's cock with his mouth. Arthur has to brace himself against the shelf lining the tiled wall, and knocks the shampoo bottle down accidentally when he comes, shuddering down Eames' throat.
He tries to return the favour, after, but he still isn't good at blowjobs. Still doesn't like giving them. He only does this in the shower, where it seems cleaner, but the hard floor always makes his knees ache and water runs into his eyes, and he still can't get more than the first few inches into his mouth once Eames is fully hard, and that frustrates him. He struggles for a few minutes until Eames laughs at him, pulls him to his feet and kisses him, and Arthur gratefully lets him lick away the taste of himself. He wraps Arthur's wet palm around his prick instead, and fucks into his fist until he's close; and when he is, he takes Arthur's hand away and replaces it with his own. Arthur's bemused by this, until Eames leans over him, planting his other hand against the wall, caging Arthur with his bulk, and he comes, panting shakily, all over Arthur's cock before Arthur even sees it coming.
Eames catches his breath for a minute, still propped against the wall, then blinks his eyes open. Arthur stares at him. Water is beading along Eames' eyelashes, clumping them together. He smiles.
“Sorry,” he murmurs huskily. “I had to.”
“Kind of ruined the point of washing,” Arthur says dryly, slipping away from him to wipe himself off. The water's starting to lose heat and he sighs, but Eames comes up behind him with a washcloth and helps wipe him clean. Arthur's so tired his dick doesn't even twitch under the attention.
“There. All sorted,” Eames says, and reaches past him to switch off the water before it can turn really cold. Arthur shivers until Eames grabs a towel and wraps him in it.
They go to bed together with their hair still damp-Eames in his sweatpants, Arthur in pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt, and he doesn't mind so much when Eames snuggles close to him.
“Question,” Eames says softly in the dark, right next to Arthur's ear. “If we aren't boyfriends. What would you call us?”
Arthur thinks about it. It comes to him after a minute.
“Friends with benefits,” he states firmly.
Eames starts laughing. Arthur twists over to look at him.
“What's so funny?”
“That you and I are friends,” Eames replies.
For a second Arthur is oddly disappointed. But then Eames is close again, kissing him hard, and Eames says, “I like that.”
Arthur laughs, too, relieved. “Yeah. I thought you would.”
&
(bonus epilogue because I knew people would ask)
Arthur's last two weeks as an investment banker suck, and not just because he has to finish up all the projects he's been working on. They also suck because, early on, Nash overhears a conversation between Cobb and Arthur, the former gently trying to discourage him from quitting just in case it is about him being gay. Nash spreads the word like wildfire and everyone on Arthur's floor knows by lunchtime. He can hear them, outside his office, talking about him like he's died or something.
Arthur's gay? I just talked to him this morning!
He hides, miserable, in his office all day. At the end of the day, on his way out, he almost walks into Nash, who snipes, “Watch it, fag,” at his back.
That time, he doesn't go home and have sex with Eames to make himself feel better. He lies in bed alone and watches TV numbly, thinking about his choices, reminding himself over and over that this is the right one. He knows it is. Deep down, he knows.
For the most part, after that first day, everyone apart from Nash treats him pretty much the same, but he still grits his teeth through his last days all the same. And then he's done. Eames bakes him a celebratory cake and Arthur's slice has a piece of eggshell in it but he tells Eames it's great anyway. He's done.
He doesn't have to see anyone from his old office until he and Eames go to a Christmas party at the Cobbs' house that December, together. As a couple. Arthur unties and reknots his tie five times in the cab before Eames closes a hand around his and gives him a meaningful look. Sighing, Arthur drops his hands into his lap and fidgets the rest of the way there.
It turns out okay, though. They sort of get separated unintentionally. Arthur ends up with the guys, and Eames goes with Mal when she gives the wives a tour of the house. No one says anything about Arthur showing up with a guy, and slowly, he begins to settle. This is going to be okay, he tells himself, just like Eames said it would be.
Nash shows up late, with his fiancée in tow. He elbows Arthur in greeting, with a grin.
“Hey, Art,” he says loudly. He makes a show of looking around eagerly. “Is your buttbuddy here? Cobb said he would be. Sorry-life partner, right? That's what you guys like to be called?”
And just like that all of Arthur's progress seems to mean nothing. He's insecure all over again, like the repressed, closeted, desperately lonely coward he used to be, forcing a laugh when his coworkers made jokes because he hates who he is so much. He hates that Nash is able to push him back there.
He can see some of the other men looking over, Cobb included, and he wants to leave the room more than anything-wants to leave the party entirely, because he knew this was a terrible idea-but something holds him there. He takes a deep breath. Lets it out slowly.
“Hi, Nash,” he says.
Nash punches him on the arm. “What's up? You look happier. Is it because you're finally getting laid on a regular basis? Sticking it to your boyfriend, right?”
Arthur has to take another deep breath. Before he's even let it out, Eames has wandered in. Arthur makes eye contact briefly-a mistake, because Eames walks over to him. He turns his head so that Eames' peck lands on his cheek.
“Everything alright?” Eames asks quietly, slipping an arm around Arthur's waist.
Arthur's very first reaction is to shove him off and escape, just get himself the hell out of here in the interests of self-preservation. He doesn't do that. He forces himself to take another breath, even deeper. Something steels itself in him.
“Nash, this is Eames,” he says evenly, looking up. “My boyfriend.”
“Hi,” Nash says, grinning, sticking a hand out. Eames looks him up and down, intrigued, and takes it.
“So this is Nash,” he says. “Arthur used to talk about you.”
Nash's smile is starting to falter, maybe due to Eames' grip. “Oh, yeah? Good things?”
“Not really,” says Eames, not letting go of his hand. “I thought you'd be taller.”
“You're not what I expected, either,” Nash says, attempting another smile, trying subtly to get his hand back.
“Mm, I imagine I'm not,” Eames says, thoughtful. “I imagine you expected somebody in sandals, or leather maybe, with a lisp.”
“Well-” Nash's face is starting to flush, blotchily, as he starts to realize he's out of depth. It's not a good look.
“Maybe you'll go easier on the faggot jokes now that you know a couple, hm?” Eames says, smiling, and winks. The "who could break your arm" at the end of that sentence goes unsaid. He lets go of Nash's hand, then, and Nash pulls it back, flexing his fingers surreptitiously. Eames steers Arthur away, gently removing him from the situation. “Arthur, Mal's made these lovely hors d'oeuvres in the kitchen, come and try one.”
His heart rate starting to settle back to normal, Arthur says as soon as they're far enough away, “You know, you didn't have to do that.”
“Yes,” Eames says firmly, still smiling, “I did.”
“And did it feel good?” Arthur asks, because it certainly had vicarious value.
“Absolutely,” Eames says, and kisses him properly.
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~5300
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Homophobia, basically pwp
Author's Note: Another Rough Trade coda taking place during the main story. keelain wanted to know in the comments of the other coda what sex in this verse would be like between Eames and an Arthur who didn't hate him, and Whisky seeks to deliver! (read: was weak, again). Obviously this one takes place several months after the other (shortly before Arthur runs to Australia in the main story). ENJOY THE ~FEELINGS.
It's 8:47PM when Arthur's BlackBerry pings, startling him.
< Eames > im at ur place. where r u?
Arthur's surprised to note the time. He hasn't been paying attention. He types back swiftly.
< Arthur > Sorry. Got caught up at work. Be home later. Will you wait?
He hesitates before adding that last part. He really wants to see Eames tonight. The phone pings.
< Eames > alrite. see u then
“Hey, Arthur.” It's Wes, one of his coworkers, popping his head around the door to Arthur's office. “We're getting Chinese. You want an egg roll?”
Arthur tucks his phone away quickly. “Yeah, sure.”
It's almost useless getting back to work now that he knows Eames is at his place, waiting for him. Maybe he's in bed, slicking up his cock for Arthur already, and-
He has to shutter his brain against those thoughts. It's too distracting. But-it's already been five days since the last time they saw each other. He wants to tell Eames that he got a full night's sleep last night, on his own. Eames will know what an accomplishment it is.
But first, he really wants to eat. He joins his colleagues when the food arrives, its smell reaching him before Wes' email does. When Arthur takes a seat, Wes is taking each dish out of the paper take-away bag. There's only a few of them there, this late at night. Nash hands out styrofoam plates-Arthur takes his and thinks forcibly of Eames, who would be scandalized by this offense against the environment-and as he's passing a plate to Chris, the only female in the room, Nash says, “Hey, Chris, I got a good one for you. Why couldn't Helen Keller drive?”
Chris rolls her eyes. Wes looks up expectantly, and Nash finishes, “Because she was a woman!”
He cracks up laughing at his own joke. “Grow up, Nash,” Chris says.
“Well, I can't tell black or Jew jokes with these two here,” says Nash, gesturing at Wes and Arthur impatiently.
“I don't even practise,” Arthur reminds him.
“You can't tell a joke without offending someone these days,” says Nash. He heaps a pile of fried rice onto his plate, and the rest of them start helping themselves. Arthur has barely started eating when Nash perks up and says, “Okay, I got one. How do you get four faggots to share a barstool?”
Arthur stiffens slightly and looks at him.
“You flip it upside down,” Nash says, and starts laughing again. Wes chuckles.
Six months ago Arthur would have forced a short laugh, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, because fags were still “them” six months ago-not him. Now the line's a little blurrier, though, so he does nothing.
“You don't like that one, Art?” Nash says. “Okay, how's this: How many faggots does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”
“Jesus, Nash,” says Arthur.
“Just one,” Nash finishes, “but it takes a whole ER to get it back out.”
Even Chris cracks a smile, for a second. Nash and Wes are both laughing, and something is stirring inside Arthur, a defensiveness he didn't know he possessed.
“Look, would you just lay off?” he snaps.
“What's the matter?” Nash demands. “I don't see any queers in the room. Do you?”
“I have a friend who's gay,” Arthur says.
He goes back to eating, and doesn't realize they're still watching him until Nash says, “And?”
“And nothing,” says Arthur, shrugging uncomfortably. “He's a supply teacher. He lives in the East Village. He's a nice guy.”
“Remind me not to send my future kids to school in the East Village,” Nash says, and cracks up again. Arthur bristles and glares at him, and Nash shrugs, grinning. “Come on, lighten up. I'm just kidding. I didn't know I was offending your delicate sensibilities, Arthur. From now on I promise to only tell tasteful faggot jokes.”
Arthur gets up and takes his plate with him, quietly. On his way out the door he hears Nash say, “Learn to take a joke, you fag.”
It's just a spiteful, childish dig, and it doesn't set Arthur off the way it would have a few short months ago. Still, the food tastes bitter in his mouth, and he gets only half of it down before dumping the rest in the trash and packing up his computer. There's no point staying any later; he's not going to get anything done. He doesn't say goodbye to them on his way out.
When he gets home, he finds Eames sprawled on the couch and watching TV. He's in a t-shirt, sweatpants and socks, lending to Arthur's theory that Eames is hiding some spare clothes in the apartment somewhere, because he probably didn't get on the train looking like that. He looks up at Arthur and switches the TV off in the same motion, smiling.
“You're home earlier than I expected,” he says.
Arthur looks at him and thinks, distantly, about Nash calling him a fag. Then he crosses the room, shedding his coat as he goes, and gets on the couch next to Eames so that he can slot their mouths together. Eames gives a soft mmm and reaches up to clasp Arthur's face. Arthur kisses him needily, possessively, and it's still better than any kiss he's ever had.
When he breaks off, breathing lightly, Eames says, “That's a hell of a greeting.”
Arthur touches the faded sweatpants, groping between Eames' legs. “Let's go to bed.”
Eames is happy to follow him. They get in the bedroom and start stripping quickly, not bothering to get in one another's way. Arthur gets on the bed and feels Eames land on top of him, nosing at the back of his neck.
“I missed you,” he says.
“I missed your dick,” Arthur replies.
“So mean, Arthur.” Eames nuzzles him, trapping him against the bed with superior bulk. “Do you know how dreadfully mean you are?”
Arthur rolls over, awkwardly, so he can touch his fingers to Eames' lips. “Guess I missed this too.”
“My dulcet voice?”
“I was thinking of your cock-sucking lips. But I do like the way you say my name.”
“So mean,” Eames says against his neck, teeth scraping him in a grin. “But you know all my love is for this.”
His thumb rubs a small circle around Arthur's hole, and Arthur can feel the way his body flexes hungrily for it. He hisses softly. Eames sits back, and moves his hand up to Arthur's cock, stroking lightly.
“I suppose I could spare some love for this, too,” he says, and leans down to wrap his lips around it. Arthur squirms around, so that Eames has to pin his hips with both hands, and then he goes still and closes his eyes, sighing.
It becomes evident after a minute that he isn't going to get any more than partly hard. It starts to become embarrassing, and he covers his face with one hand, trying to just give in to Eames' ministrations.
“Eames,” he says, humiliated, at last.
Eames pulls off, still jerking him absently. “It's a no-go, then?”
“Sorry,” Arthur says through clenched teeth.
“Don't be.” Eames pulls his hand away so he can look Arthur in the eyes. “It happens. You've had a long week. That's one of the nice things about a same-sex relationship: no need to explain yourself. Do you want a massage?”
Arthur shakes his head. “Sorry,” he says again. He swallows, self-conscious, and adds quietly, “I was looking forward to this.”
“Never mind,” Eames says, laying a kiss on his forehead and then rolling off to the side. “You don't need an erection to have the stuffing fucked out of you.”
Arthur snorts a laugh, a sound which is promptly swallowed up by Eames' mouth. They kiss like that for a while, lying on their sides, and Eames lets his hand wander, tracing Arthur's ribs, lingering over sensitive spots. Nobody knows Arthur's body better than Eames, maybe not even Arthur himself. He's discovered so many sensitive spots he never even knew existed.
He stifles a whine when Eames leans away to grab the lube off the bedside table, but then Eames slicks his fingers and hooks one arm under Arthur's leg, lifting it so as to gain access to his hole with two fingers, too much too fast as usual. Arthur sighs, a strained sound, and tries to relax for him.
“That's it,” Eames murmurs, his brow furrowed slightly with focus. Their faces are still very close together. Arthur finds himself reaching up to trace the pads of his fingers lightly over Eames' lips-so much like a woman's, soft and thick and pink. He looks at Eames' eyes, the green-grey, the long eyelashes, and those are feminine too.
Then he moves his hand, and his palm rasps against Eames' stubble. He trails it down, down Eames' throat and over his chest hair. He plays idly with the hair that runs down Eames' navel, brushing it up and down, wondering at its softness and at the hard muscle under the flesh. Eames is not unattractive for a man, he thinks, body hair and ugly tattoos and all. When Arthur first started doing this-anonymous rough exchanges with other men-they were always older, heavier men, the sort who would use him up and send him slinking home after, awash in self-loathing. That was his punishment, to be fucked by men who weren't even attractive-just be their hot little bit for the night.
He thinks Eames could be attractive, though. He touches his stomach, marvelling at how hard it is. Just below his hand lies Eames' prick, full and heavy on the bedcovers, the crown flushed dark. Arthur touches that too, only briefly, somewhat familiar by now. He knows the soft, wrinkled foreskin, the contrastingly smooth, shiny head that gets all slick and red when Arthur licks at it for awhile, more sensitive than his own glans. He skims his fingertips down, just brushing Eames' balls, then pulls his hand away.
He realizes, when he raises his gaze, that Eames is watching him.
“Did you forget what a naked man in your bed looks like, kitten?” he asks softly, his gaze searching.
Arthur shakes his head. He can feel himself opening to Eames' fingers, like a lock to a key. “You leave a pretty strong impression,” he says.
“Just in case,” Eames says, and with his free hand he takes Arthur's wrist and returns it to his cock. He's pushing Arthur, wanting to see if he'll back off. Arthur holds his gaze and starts stroking him, sliding a firm hand up and down, remembering how Eames likes to be touched. Eames' soft lips curl into a smile.
The last time Nash had been running his mouth at work, and Arthur had taken it out on Eames (as if it were Eames' fault, any of it), Eames had asked, “Why don't you just tell him to stop?” Not worth it, Arthur said, and Eames replied, “Maybe you have another colleague who's in the closet and doesn't want to say anything and you'd be doing him a favour.” “Or maybe,” Arthur had snarled, well and truly angry at him for no rational reason, “you want me to go marching into work wearing a rainbow flag and announce to everyone that I let some fucking thug with no job fuck me in the ass every other night, maybe that's what you want.”
He still remembers the startled look on Eames' face. Startled, even though Arthur had given him every reason to expect that kind of viciousness. He tucks his head into Eames' neck now, silently apologizing. Arthur's life is a mess, but at least he knows how much messier it could get. He can't believe Eames has stuck with him all these months-like he knew all along that if he prised Arthur open just gently enough they could be here, lying in bed together; not fighting, just touching each other.
“Thanks for still being here,” he mumbles into Eames' chest, sort of hating himself for saying it.
“Well, I wasn't going to head home after I rode the train all the way up here,” Eames says, not understanding, and Arthur doesn't correct him. He just lets Eames kiss him again, and they do that, lazily, for awhile.
Eames removes his fingers suddenly, takes Arthur by the hips and rolls, pulling Arthur on top. Arthur squirms in discomfort until his cock isn't in danger of brushing against Eames'-a stupid issue to have, after everything, but old habits die hard and he's still very much out of his element here. He looks at the covers rather than at the sculpted planes of Eames' stomach.
“Go on,” Eames says, settling back against the pillows to watch.
There's something about doing things like this with Eames that are ferociously yet queasily arousing to Arthur, like watching particularly filthy porn and feeling somehow ashamed about it afterward. They've never tried this position before. Arthur's still warming up to the notion of fucking face-to-face. Sitting on top of Eames like this, there is no way for him to pretend he's doing anything but having sex with a man; and it turns him on far more than it should, even knowing he'll feel a little ill about it after.
He decides it's worth it, and guides Eames' naked cock between his legs. He bites his lip as forces the head in-still such a tight fit, after all this time-closes his eyes and lowers himself unsteadily. He's hard himself now, his cock flushed an angry red, and as he sinks down on Eames it pulses out a thin stream of precome.
“That seemed to do the trick,” Eames murmurs, thumbing Arthur's cock.
“Don't-touch,” Arthur says shakily, startled into stopping. “Just-give me a minute.”
Eames stops, lets Arthur sit there on his cock and shiver and try to reorient his senses. The room spins weakly around him. He wonders if all the blood flooding to his cock has left him lightheaded. It's not just arousal. His heart pounds and his stomach churns and he recognizes anxiety, too.
He remembers what Eames said the first time he brought up missionary position and Arthur had shot him down. Afraid you'll like it?
He takes deep breaths. Thinks about Nash calling him a fag. He opens his eyes and thinks, viciously, Fine. So I'll be a fag. But he can't move.
“You alright?” Eames asks under him. He waits for a response, and when none comes, gently, he pulls Arthur off and rolls him over again. Arthur can feel him groping around; he comes back with a pillow and slides it under Arthur's hips. Then he lifts one of Arthur's legs up under the knee, and pushes back in. Arthur sighs, letting his head fall back. He likes this. He doesn't have to think about anything, like this.
“I'm good,” he says. Eames leans down and kisses him, then starts moving, rocking his hips a little roughly.
“You're so gorgeous,” he growls softly. “Look at you.”
Arthur cracks one eye open, smiling. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”
Eames just grins wolfishly, rapidly losing the brain function required to put words together. He finds Arthur's mouth again for another, sloppier kiss, then leans back a bit and starts thrusting in harder, looking down to watch where he's plundering Arthur's pliant body. It gives Arthur a chance to watch Eames, the sheen of sweat on his body, the flex of his muscles, the ripple of his horrible tattoos. Yes, he likes this. It's still just crazy enough, for him, that it makes him stupidly hot without also adding those unpleasant queasy feelings to the mix, and he starts jerking himself with a groan of relief, pushing his hips up into Eames'.
“That's it,” Eames murmurs, because he thinks he still needs to encourage Arthur, or maybe he doesn't realize he's speaking aloud. “Yeah, yeah, that's it.”
Very soon he's snapping his hips hard until Arthur is panting, scrabbling weakly at Eames' shoulder in pain; a good, sweet pain, the kind only Eames can bring him. He takes his other hand off his cock to brace against the rattling headboard, teeth clenched and eyes squeezed shut; not because he can't watch, but against the strain of Eames' girth. It's only been five days, but he's never prepared for the brutal stretch. Eames leans down to nuzzle at him, stubble scratching Arthur's face, and it's definitely Arthur's sweat that dampens his neck, not tears, never tears.
His nails clench tighter in Eames' back when Eames finds the sweet spot-it never takes him long-and Eames slows a bit, dragging his cockhead against Arthur's insides, positively milking his prostate until Arthur comes with a feeble, punched-out sound. After that he goes pliant and limp, squirming and gasping when Eames keeps fucking him right there, until Eames comes, too, with a long groan.
He waits a few seconds and then pulls out, leaving Arthur fucked-open and wet, and drops onto the mattress at Arthur's side. They both catch their breath, sweat cooling on their bodies. Arthur stares up at the ceiling dazedly.
“Here.” Eames startles him, having snagged one of the towels Arthur keeps on the bedside table, now rolling over to wipe away the mess on Arthur's stomach and between his legs. Arthur lets him. Eames puts it aside when he's done, and curls up against Arthur's side, pressing lazy kisses to his neck and shoulder. Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, takes a deep breath.
“Nash was being stupid at work again,” he says when several minutes have passed. Eames has stopped kissing and is idly stroking the soft line of hair on Arthur's naval. His fingers don't falter.
“Did you say anything to him?”
“Yeah,” Arthur says. “I told him to lay off. I said I know a gay guy.”
“And what did he say?”
“He called me a fag.”
“Charming.” Eames presses another kiss to Arthur's neck. “I'd like to meet this Nash, I think.” He pauses thoughtfully, then says, “I'm very proud of you, Arthur.”
“You are?”
“Yes, I am. What would you have done if Nash had called you a fag a few months ago, hm?”
Arthur forces a weak, embarrassed laugh. “Come home and yelled at you for making me gay.”
“Right,” says Eames. “But you stood up for yourself.”
“Not really,” Arthur mutters, eyes downcast. “I stood up for the gay guy I know who lives in the East Village.”
Eames stops petting him. “Arthur, do you think you'll ever be able to come out? To anyone?”
“Maybe my brother, one day ...” Just thinking about it makes him feel sick, all those self-loathing feelings simmering back up to the surface, filling him with shame. He closes his eyes again. “No. I can't. If it got back to my coworkers ...”
“You've come so far already,” Eames murmurs softly. Arthur's hair is coming loose, damp and curling with sweat; Eames brushes it off his face. A lump rises in Arthur's throat.
“This isn't permanent,” he reminds Eames firmly. Eames withdraws his hand.
“I know that,” he says after a pause.
“Do you? Because the way you act, Eames, like we're ...”
“Boyfriends?” Eames says. Arthur huffs a sigh.
“Yes, Eames. Like we're boyfriends.”
“Aren't we?” Eames asks. His voice is rising.
“I don't know,” says Arthur. “I don't want to think about it, okay, I don't like thinking about it.” Eames says nothing, and Arthur hurries to fill the silence. “Look, can we not fight tonight? I don't want to fight, Eames.”
“Neither do I,” says Eames.
“Doesn't this work? Can't we just be happy like this?”
“Sneaking around like I'm your mistress, not even able to go out for dinner like normal people, yeah, this works,” Eames says, and then, abruptly, he demands: “Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“Happy?”
“Yeah,” Arthur says, thinking about it. “I mean, I'm happy sometimes, like when I'm with you... Fuck.” He sighs and scrubs a palm over his face. His brain is still catching up after that orgasm. “That sounded less stupid in my head. I just mean I'm not happy at work, and usually when I'm not at the office I'm with you. That's what I meant.”
“Right. I know,” says Eames.
Arthur sighs again, and climbs out of bed. “I'm going to shower.” He hesitates a second, and adds, as a peace offering, “Are you coming?”
Eames is more than happy to follow him into the shower. He doesn't seem upset by their conversation, fortunately. In fact, he goes right back to normal, which in this instance means humming some slow tune, grinding his hips from side to side against Arthur's ass absent-mindedly while giving him a shampoo mohawk. Arthur tolerates this, even when Eames wraps both arms around him from behind and sways back and forth with him, still humming, then twirls him carefully so that they're face to face.
“Why are we dancing?” Arthur asks, now with a hand clasped in Eames' and the other on Eames' shoulder. Eames' other hand is resting at Arthur's lower back, but it's trailing lower and lower.
“You never dance in the shower?” Eames says, raising his eyebrows. “I don't believe you.”
Arthur missteps and nearly slips on the slick porcelain. He pulls his hand away. “I can't do this if I'm not leading.”
“Lead, then,” Eames suggests, and goes back to humming. He removes his hand from Arthur's ass, places Arthur's hand on his back, and then puts his palm on Arthur's shoulder. Arthur bites back a laugh.
“You have an answer for everything, don't you?” he asks wryly.
“Everything,” Eames says gravely.
They stop for a minute so that Arthur can rinse out his hair, but the water is still comfortingly hot, so Eames pulls him back into an embrace and Arthur lets him, leading again. “I feel like I'm at the prom,” Arthur says.
“Your date was never as pretty as me, was she?” Eames purrs, resting his head on Arthur's shoulder. Arthur rolls his eyes, smiling.
“Her dick wasn't as big.”
“Mmm.” Eames lays a sucking kiss on his shoulder. “Arthur likes it big.”
“Tits were nicer, though,” Arthur says.
They're still circling, slowly. Eames lifts his head, watching Arthur with a darkly amused expression.
“Did you have sex with her, after?” he asks. “Did you take her to a pretty hotel room and fuck her, Arthur?”
Arthur shakes his head. Eames' voice drops, becoming even throatier.
“Would you take me to a hotel and fuck me?”
Arthur swallows and shakes his head jerkily, looking away for a second. Then he brings his gaze back to Eames' eyes. “I like when you do the fucking.”
Eames smiles predatorily and kisses him in a way that makes Arthur feel very much as though he isn't doing the leading at all. His hand slides between them, cupping Arthur's soft cock, and then rubbing, his hand nice and wet and hot from the water. Then he sinks to his knees, water cascading down his brawny back and shoulder muscles, and engulfs Arthur's cock with his mouth. Arthur has to brace himself against the shelf lining the tiled wall, and knocks the shampoo bottle down accidentally when he comes, shuddering down Eames' throat.
He tries to return the favour, after, but he still isn't good at blowjobs. Still doesn't like giving them. He only does this in the shower, where it seems cleaner, but the hard floor always makes his knees ache and water runs into his eyes, and he still can't get more than the first few inches into his mouth once Eames is fully hard, and that frustrates him. He struggles for a few minutes until Eames laughs at him, pulls him to his feet and kisses him, and Arthur gratefully lets him lick away the taste of himself. He wraps Arthur's wet palm around his prick instead, and fucks into his fist until he's close; and when he is, he takes Arthur's hand away and replaces it with his own. Arthur's bemused by this, until Eames leans over him, planting his other hand against the wall, caging Arthur with his bulk, and he comes, panting shakily, all over Arthur's cock before Arthur even sees it coming.
Eames catches his breath for a minute, still propped against the wall, then blinks his eyes open. Arthur stares at him. Water is beading along Eames' eyelashes, clumping them together. He smiles.
“Sorry,” he murmurs huskily. “I had to.”
“Kind of ruined the point of washing,” Arthur says dryly, slipping away from him to wipe himself off. The water's starting to lose heat and he sighs, but Eames comes up behind him with a washcloth and helps wipe him clean. Arthur's so tired his dick doesn't even twitch under the attention.
“There. All sorted,” Eames says, and reaches past him to switch off the water before it can turn really cold. Arthur shivers until Eames grabs a towel and wraps him in it.
They go to bed together with their hair still damp-Eames in his sweatpants, Arthur in pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt, and he doesn't mind so much when Eames snuggles close to him.
“Question,” Eames says softly in the dark, right next to Arthur's ear. “If we aren't boyfriends. What would you call us?”
Arthur thinks about it. It comes to him after a minute.
“Friends with benefits,” he states firmly.
Eames starts laughing. Arthur twists over to look at him.
“What's so funny?”
“That you and I are friends,” Eames replies.
For a second Arthur is oddly disappointed. But then Eames is close again, kissing him hard, and Eames says, “I like that.”
Arthur laughs, too, relieved. “Yeah. I thought you would.”
&
(bonus epilogue because I knew people would ask)
Arthur's last two weeks as an investment banker suck, and not just because he has to finish up all the projects he's been working on. They also suck because, early on, Nash overhears a conversation between Cobb and Arthur, the former gently trying to discourage him from quitting just in case it is about him being gay. Nash spreads the word like wildfire and everyone on Arthur's floor knows by lunchtime. He can hear them, outside his office, talking about him like he's died or something.
Arthur's gay? I just talked to him this morning!
He hides, miserable, in his office all day. At the end of the day, on his way out, he almost walks into Nash, who snipes, “Watch it, fag,” at his back.
That time, he doesn't go home and have sex with Eames to make himself feel better. He lies in bed alone and watches TV numbly, thinking about his choices, reminding himself over and over that this is the right one. He knows it is. Deep down, he knows.
For the most part, after that first day, everyone apart from Nash treats him pretty much the same, but he still grits his teeth through his last days all the same. And then he's done. Eames bakes him a celebratory cake and Arthur's slice has a piece of eggshell in it but he tells Eames it's great anyway. He's done.
He doesn't have to see anyone from his old office until he and Eames go to a Christmas party at the Cobbs' house that December, together. As a couple. Arthur unties and reknots his tie five times in the cab before Eames closes a hand around his and gives him a meaningful look. Sighing, Arthur drops his hands into his lap and fidgets the rest of the way there.
It turns out okay, though. They sort of get separated unintentionally. Arthur ends up with the guys, and Eames goes with Mal when she gives the wives a tour of the house. No one says anything about Arthur showing up with a guy, and slowly, he begins to settle. This is going to be okay, he tells himself, just like Eames said it would be.
Nash shows up late, with his fiancée in tow. He elbows Arthur in greeting, with a grin.
“Hey, Art,” he says loudly. He makes a show of looking around eagerly. “Is your buttbuddy here? Cobb said he would be. Sorry-life partner, right? That's what you guys like to be called?”
And just like that all of Arthur's progress seems to mean nothing. He's insecure all over again, like the repressed, closeted, desperately lonely coward he used to be, forcing a laugh when his coworkers made jokes because he hates who he is so much. He hates that Nash is able to push him back there.
He can see some of the other men looking over, Cobb included, and he wants to leave the room more than anything-wants to leave the party entirely, because he knew this was a terrible idea-but something holds him there. He takes a deep breath. Lets it out slowly.
“Hi, Nash,” he says.
Nash punches him on the arm. “What's up? You look happier. Is it because you're finally getting laid on a regular basis? Sticking it to your boyfriend, right?”
Arthur has to take another deep breath. Before he's even let it out, Eames has wandered in. Arthur makes eye contact briefly-a mistake, because Eames walks over to him. He turns his head so that Eames' peck lands on his cheek.
“Everything alright?” Eames asks quietly, slipping an arm around Arthur's waist.
Arthur's very first reaction is to shove him off and escape, just get himself the hell out of here in the interests of self-preservation. He doesn't do that. He forces himself to take another breath, even deeper. Something steels itself in him.
“Nash, this is Eames,” he says evenly, looking up. “My boyfriend.”
“Hi,” Nash says, grinning, sticking a hand out. Eames looks him up and down, intrigued, and takes it.
“So this is Nash,” he says. “Arthur used to talk about you.”
Nash's smile is starting to falter, maybe due to Eames' grip. “Oh, yeah? Good things?”
“Not really,” says Eames, not letting go of his hand. “I thought you'd be taller.”
“You're not what I expected, either,” Nash says, attempting another smile, trying subtly to get his hand back.
“Mm, I imagine I'm not,” Eames says, thoughtful. “I imagine you expected somebody in sandals, or leather maybe, with a lisp.”
“Well-” Nash's face is starting to flush, blotchily, as he starts to realize he's out of depth. It's not a good look.
“Maybe you'll go easier on the faggot jokes now that you know a couple, hm?” Eames says, smiling, and winks. The "who could break your arm" at the end of that sentence goes unsaid. He lets go of Nash's hand, then, and Nash pulls it back, flexing his fingers surreptitiously. Eames steers Arthur away, gently removing him from the situation. “Arthur, Mal's made these lovely hors d'oeuvres in the kitchen, come and try one.”
His heart rate starting to settle back to normal, Arthur says as soon as they're far enough away, “You know, you didn't have to do that.”
“Yes,” Eames says firmly, still smiling, “I did.”
“And did it feel good?” Arthur asks, because it certainly had vicarious value.
“Absolutely,” Eames says, and kisses him properly.