France in the Summertime, 1/1
Title: France in the Summertime
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~4600
Rating: NC-17
Author's Note: Pretty much everyone who commented on The Sharpest Lives asked for a follow-up fic. I liked the open ending, but I am embarrassingly susceptible to peer pressure, so I decided to share what I imagined would have happened. Scuse any typos, it's late and I'm tired. xD
As Arthur told himself, this was a vacation from work. A well-deserved one. He just happened to be flying to London. If he happened to run into a certain artist by some extraordinary coincidence, all the better.
Of course, Arthur's idea of a coincidence was to look up Eames' exact living address in London. It was the first place he went when his plane landed in England, before he even booked himself a hotel.
The flat was somewhat dingy, not what he'd expected, based on Eames' vibrant paintings. And it was empty. Nobody answered when he knocked. The wind was taken considerably out of his sails.
He stood there for fifteen minutes, stumped, when an older lady with greying hair appeared and said, “Are you looking for Mr. Eames?”
Arthur nodded dumbly. “I'm a -- friend,” he said after a moment, in case she thought he was some kind of stalker (which, really, he was).
“Well, you won't find him here. He's at his cottage for the winter.”
“His cottage,” said Arthur, deflating a little. “Right. Of course. Thanks.”
He turned to go. It wasn't in the cards; the stars had not lined up in his favour. But then Arthur did something impulsive. He turned around before he reached the end of the hall, and called back to the lady, who was collecting the newspaper from outside Eames' door.
“Is he with anyone?”
“A housekeeper, occasionally, I suppose,” she shrugged.
“Right,” said Arthur. “Um, where would his cottage be, again?”
That afternoon Arthur was on a plane to France.
+
Eames' solitary cottage sat above a lake, had a thatched roof, and was covered in dried-out brown tendrils of ivy. Arthur had seen it before. He had the painting hanging in his living room. He stared at it for a few minutes before mustering the nerve to walk up the path and knock on the door.
The Eames that greeted him seemed very familiar. Apart from the scar on his cheek, and the fact that he looked, somehow, younger, fresher, he hardly appeared to have changed at all.
He folded his arms over his chest and leaned into the door jamb, eyes half-lidded. “Arthur,” he said, and even the distinct purr of the second syllable was the same.
Arthur had wondered, irrationally, if Eames would even recognize him, after only six years. Now, standing in front of him, Arthur's brain seemed to leave him entirely.
“Callahan,” he blurted out. “Uh, my last name. Not that I'm presumptuous enough to think that you'd have looked me up, or anything, if you knew it, I just -- I always thought I should've told you. Before you left.”
Eames seemed to chew on the inside of his cheek for a few moments. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled, a languid smile to match the lazy droop of his eyelids.
“Arthur Callahan,” he said, in the same slow purr. “I won't tell you my first name. It's poncey.”
Arthur hovered there for a minute while Eames just looked at him. Eventually he fidgeted.
“Um, can I come in?”
“Yes, of course,” said Eames immediately, like he'd only just remembered his manners. He stepped aside, and Arthur entered the cottage, suitcase in tow.
+
The cottage was quite tiny. It had a kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, main room, and a sun porch, which overlooked the lake. The furniture was nothing like Arthur's own modern set; it was rustic and quaint, giving the house a warm, worn, old-fashioned feel. A fire crackled in the hearth. Arthur spied an antique gramophone at one end. The main room was full of art supplies: sketches, pencils, canvasas, paints, and some things Arthur had no name for. He delicately shifted a blank canvas aside so he could take a seat on the couch while Eames dropped in front of an easel.
“I've been working on scenery,” he said, looking out at the sun porch. “Normally I like to paint people.”
“I know,” said Arthur. “I mean -- I have some of your paintings,” he said, flushing.
Eames simply nodded. Arthur's gaze was drawn to that scar on his cheek. He'd seen it when it was fresh and oozing blood. He didn't like it. It marred Eames' nice features.
“I stay here six months out of the year,” said Eames, still gazing across at the sun porch, the lake beyond. “Summer and winter.”
“It's beautiful here,” said Arthur, sorely wishing he could think of something more intelligent to say.
Eames nodded again. He seemed distracted. He raised a paintbrush to the easel in front of him and made a long stroke.
For awhile Arthur just watched him paint. He couldn't see the canvas from his vantage point; only Eames' face, which was intent and thoughtful. Now and then Eames would ask him a question about his life, and nod silently at Arthur's answers.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked eventually.
“Not at the moment.” Arthur was sorting through some of Eames' sketches. Some of them he could barely make sense of; others were almost finished drawings. Though he was pretty sure he knew the answer, he said, “You?”
“Ha. Not in six years.” Eames narrowed his eyes at his painting, gazing at it with intense concentration. “Just haven't made room in my life for dating. I'm a bit of a hermit these days.”
“Oh,” said Arthur. He wasn't sure what to make of this quiet, subdued Eames.
In the evening Eames left his painting and prepared chicken and salad for dinner. They ate together in relative silence. Eames still seemed oddly distracted.
“Sorry,” he said. “I've fallen out of the habit of normal conversation. I rarely have company up here.”
“That's okay,” said Arthur.
“If I knew how to be more interesting, I would be.”
“You've always been interesting.”
Eames prodded his chicken with his fork and smiled. He had a peculiar way of smiling, Arthur noticed. He'd bite the inside of his cheek and then smile slowly, eyes downcast like he was thinking of something secret.
“You know,” said Arthur impulsively, “I missed you.”
“Did you now,” said Eames. It was Arthur's turn to nod.
“I have since you left. I didn't know what it was, at first. Just felt like something was missing, all those years. Then I saw your paintings and I knew.”
Eames smiled again, the same shy smile, not meeting Arthur's eyes.
They were silent again.
Afterward, when the dishes were cleared away, Eames took out a bottle of wine and they retired to the sun porch, which was attached to both the main room and the bedroom. They drank wine and watched the sun set over the lake, which was half frozen. Ducks paddled across and left long rippling Vs in their wake.
“He came after me, once,” said Eames, and Arthur knew who he was talking about. “To London. But there was nothing he could do. You'd seen to that. I guess he's not as confident when he's not on his own soil, either. He had to go back to America without me, and I never saw him again.” He poured himself some more wine and took a sip. “I wonder, sometimes, if he has a new boyfriend. I wonder if he ever learned to be happy with who he is.”
“Probably not,” said Arthur.
“No,” Eames agreed. “Probably not.”
They stayed on the porch until it grew dark and cold, and then Eames went to bed. Arthur slept on the couch.
+
In the morning, Eames made pancakes with cinnamon and apple slices. Arthur ate while he watched Eames paint. The silence between them should have been uncomfortable, but it felt companionable and easy. Arthur found himself liking the quietness and solitude of the lonely French cottage, so very far away from the hustle and bustle of New York.
He was starting to put his thumb on what was different about Eames. He was emotionally shuttered, hiding away his feelings so that nobody could see or exploit them. He looked the same, but he wasn't the easy-going joker Arthur had known six years ago. He was very far from it. Apart from the one on his face, he carried all his scars inside, and they were like a physical weight holding him down.
They had tea in the kitchen and Eames asked, “Any significant changes in your life since I last saw you?”
“Apart from working on Wall Street, instead of a grocery store?” Arthur considered. He was independent now, yes, but not much else had changed. “I have a cat now,” he offered.
Eames' lip curved upward. “What did you name it?”
Arthur paused. “Edith.”
That made Eames chuckle for the first time since Arthur had seen him. He shook his head and ducked it, grinning down at his tea.
“What?”
In answer Eames got up and went back into the main room. Arthur followed him. Eames was fiddling with the old gramophone. After a moment, there was a soft crackle, and then music began to play.
Non, rien de rien ...
“Non, je ne regrette rien,” Eames said softly in time with the song.
“Edith Piaf,” said Arthur.
Eames tilted his head in Arthur's direction and seemed to be smiling, genuinely smiling, for a moment.
“Do you have any regrets, Arthur?”
“I don't know,” said Arthur truthfully. “Do you?”
Eames stroked a finger over the arm of the gramophone. “Not a one,” he said.
In the old days, he'd have ordered Arthur to dance with him. Arthur would have pulled a face and Ariadne would have obliged, instead. Arthur would have said yes, had Eames asked then, but he didn't. He stopped the gramophone just as the music swelled.
“It's not my record,” he said. “But I like it anyway.”
“Hey,” said Arthur impulsively. “Can you still juggle?”
Eames laughed again, the sound music to Arthur's ears.
“Five of any item,” he said. “Challenge me.”
It took Arthur a minute to find five of anything in the tiny cottage. Eventually he came up with five pairs of balled-up socks. Eames made a face when Arthur presented them to him.
“I said challenge,” he protested, but he took three anyway and started juggling. The fourth, when Arthur tossed it to him, was no problem either. But when Arthur threw him the fifth, he fumbled and dropped it.
“Damn,” he said, catching the others. He frowned. “I guess it's been awhile.”
Arthur got the feeling that this bothered him more than he was letting on.
+
They had fish that night and afterward, while Eames cleared up, Arthur wandered the cottage and started tidying. Eames' housekeeper, wherever she was, was not very on top of things. The place was full of clutter. Arthur's nature would not let him ignore it any longer. He started cleaning up.
“Hey, now,” said Eames, when he walked into the main room. “I'll have you know, I've struck a very delicate balance here between bachelor chic and eccentric artist, and you're ruining all my efforts.”
“Really?” said Arthur, stacking all his blank canvases neatly. “Because it looks more like Hurricane Eames just decided to crash here one day.”
“It's an organized chaos,” Eames protested.
“And now it will be even more organized.”
“You're worse than a woman,” said Eames, but he went out onto the sun porch to work on his painting, and left Arthur to it.
The main room looked wonderfully tidy when Arthur was done with it. There was a smudge of paint on the floor he couldn't do anything about, but he shifted the coffee table over a few inches and the leg covered it well enough. He moved into Eames' bedroom: another disaster zone. Clothes were draped on every surface, including the rim of the laundry hamper, like they were trying to crawl inside and hadn't quite made it.
Arthur sighed. He threw everything that looked dirty into the hamper, and folded everything that looked clean. The dirty clothes were sorted into whites and coloureds next. When he was done, he hunkered down on the rug and looked underneath Eames' bed. More clothes. Resignedly he began pulling out pairs of jeans, old shirts that had somehow been kicked under there.
There was a rap on the glass door to the porch. Eames was just outside, smoking a cigarette.
“Out of there, you,” he called through the glass, jerking a thumb to emphasize his point. Arthur simply rolled his eyes, and Eames wandered out of sight again.
Behind the small mountain of clothes under the bed, there was a black leather book. Arthur pulled it out and ran his thumb over it. It had been bound shut. Carefully, he eased the band off it, ready to put the book away if it happened to be a private journal.
But it was a sketchbook, full of pictures of people. Arthur thumbed through it curiously. These were better than the sketches that had been left in the other room.
It wasn't full of pictures of people, he realized belatedly. Every drawing was of the same young man with the same dark hair. Every page was full of pictures of Arthur. Arthur reading a book. Arthur in a scarf. Arthur drinking a cup of Starbucks coffee. There were hundreds of them.
He realized his mouth was slightly agape when he looked up and saw Eames in the doorway. Eames was shaking his head jerkily.
“You shouldn't have ...”
“Eames,” said Arthur softly.
Eames buried his face in one hand, the other gripping the door.
“I think about you every single day,” he said, voice shaking dangerously. “And every single night. I have for six years.”
Arthur wanted to be able to say the same thing, but he'd been trying to put Eames out of mind. Maybe Eames deserved it, after all those nights he'd kept Arthur up worrying and pining, but Arthur knew he didn't, really. And he didn't deserve to look like this now, like Arthur had shattered every defense he had and left him broken and vulnerable, because after all these years he was still letting his heart rule him, and it would have been so easy for Arthur to take advantage of him then, reel him in and use him up and keep him coming back for more.
Arthur couldn't say I won't hurt you aloud, so he got up and crossed the room, pulled Eames' hand away from his face and let a kiss say it for him.
+
Falling into bed with someone had never felt so natural. Eames looked dazed, like he couldn't believe this was happening, as Arthur tugged impatiently at his shirt. When Arthur's own clothing followed, Eames drank him in like he'd never seen anything so beautiful, like he'd be happy to stop everything right there if he'd only be allowed to keep looking at Arthur. He touched, and touched, mapping the planes of Arthur's body with his hands, and it made Arthur feel awkward and self-conscious, except that there was so much reverence in Eames' gaze.
“I don't -- have condoms,” he stammered out finally, drawing his hands back as if he'd suddenly realized for the first time what Arthur's intentions were.
“I do,” said Arthur.
“Oh,” said Eames. He raised his eyebrows. “Thought I'd be that easy, did you?”
“They were just in case.”
“Ha,” said Eames, but he got up and found Arthur's suitcase and dug through it till he found the lube and condoms. Arthur rolled onto his stomach, spread his thighs and watched languidly over his shoulder, till Eames settled atop him and eased a slicked finger inside him. He laid his other hand on the small of Arthur's back, to feel the trembling down his spine.
“You're exquisite,” he murmured. “Like a painting.”
“What a weird thing to say,” Arthur replied, muffled into the pillow he was clutching, flushed and quivering and feeling his pulse throb in every part of his body. Eames laughed, really laughed. He added another finger as Arthur relaxed in increments, then a third.
“Six years is a bloody long dry spell,” he said, leaning down so that the words brushed Arthur's ear. “And it's been longer since I've topped. Don't expect too much, alright?”
Arthur wasn't normally one to get sentimental in bed, but he sensed that Eames needed it, so he said, “Nothing you do could disappoint me, Eames.”
Eames' fingers stilled inside him for a moment. When they resumed, they were slower and more gentle, stroking him open with unbearable patience until Arthur was trembling, needing more, the pressure not nearly enough, clenching his thighs to try and gain some friction between his cock and the bedcovers. Eames' patience must have been superhuman, or maybe he just enjoyed seeing Arthur like this, grinding his teeth so hard he thought they'd break, rocking back into Eames' hand, gritting out, “Come on, Eames, just -- get on with it, fuck--”
Eames hushed him, stroked his back lovingly. He took his fingers away and Arthur growled, but then Eames was laying kisses along the slope of his spine, and then he was there, pressing inside, and Arthur's growl twisted into something that more resembled a whine.
“Alright?” Eames asked when he could sink no deeper, his voice huskier than Arthur had ever heard it.
“Move,” was all Arthur managed.
Eames chuckled, and he did. He nuzzled along the back of Arthur's neck, just behind his jaw, so that Arthur could feel his tousled, sweat-damp strands of hair, and he rocked his hips steadily, with the same care and patience that made Arthur want to tear up the pillow under him. It felt foreign, even though Arthur had bottomed before; it felt like a sudden switch in gravity, utterly alien, and his body wasn't sure how to react, sending flurried messages to his brain and making his thoughts short-circuit. Maybe it was just that he hadn't done this in awhile, or maybe it was the way Eames fucked him, so smooth and relentless and so full inside him that it was almost overwhelming. The slow friction sent frissons of electricity to every nerve in Arthur's body, setting everything alight; his pulse hammered thickly in his neck and ears.
“God, Arthur,” Eames groaned, and already he sounded wrecked. His breath was hot and damp on Arthur's neck. “You're so -- you feel amazing, I can't--”
It was slow and it was tender and Arthur didn't know how badly he needed it. All he could do was make strained, muffled sounds into his arm and arch back into each of Eames' careful thrusts. His brain, completely fried, offered up the dazed thought that now Arthur knew, for the first time, what was meant by the term love-making. That was what Eames was doing -- loving Arthur with every inch of his body and every atom of his being. He was just as deft and precise when he reached under Arthur's hips and began to jerk him, gently. Arthur kept waiting for him to speed up, but he didn't; he kept the same tempered pace like he wanted to savour every second and map him out entirely, and soon he'd found which precise angle made Arthur's breath hitch, and where to touch him that made shudder all over, till the sounds Arthur was making were less sounds than sobs of breath. And Eames was still murmuring into Arthur's ear, and it took him a minute to make sense of the litany of words that were spilling past Eames' lips--
I love you, I love you, God I love you ...
They came within seconds of each other. Arthur had never felt so completely and thoroughly exposed, like Eames had turned him inside out in order to examine every part of him. He felt like nobody had ever really known him until now. He'd never felt so complete, and he suspected Eames hadn't, either.
+
Arthur spent the entire week in the cottage, not leaving once. He and Eames spent more time in bed than anywhere else. They relearned each other's voices and habits, explored each other's bodies. He'd never been so intimate with anyone. He could almost watch as Eames' emotional armour fell away, piece by piece.
Mornings were Arthur's favourite time of day. He would wake tangled in the cotton sheets and he'd watch from the bed while Eames painted on the porch, trying to capture the mist rolling off the lake. He'd get up, pull on a pair of jeans and the closest sweater at hand and venture into the kitchen, yawning and shivering from the morning chill, and make tea and breakfast. Eames would join him by the time it was ready, and they'd eat together, and then go back to bed, curl up under the covers snuggled together to stave off the cold, and sometimes they'd go back to sleep; sometimes they wouldn't.
Evenings were nice, too. That was when they would sit on the sun porch together and share a bottle of wine, just sit and watch the sun set over the lake.
“This place is so beautiful,” Arthur murmured, wrapped up in a blanket in his chair. Eames nodded contemplatively.
“It belonged to my dad,” he said. “My stepmother got it when he died, and she gave it to me when she passed away. She gave me everything, actually,” he said, looking down at his wine. “She was very good to me, considering the circumstances under which I showed up on her doorstep.”
“You left that day, then,” said Arthur.
“Two minutes after you did.”
Eames sipped his wine and gazed pensively over the lake. Lightly, he touched a hand to his ribcage.
“Still hurts, you know. Just little twinges now and then. Makes me think of you. In the best possible way, of course. Everything does, though.”
The sun had slipped beyond the lake. They sat, and watched, as the stars came out one by one.
“I bet this place is even more beautiful in summer,” said Arthur, in a hushed voice.
Eames chewed his lip, ducked his head and smiled secretively.
“You'll have to find out, won't you?”
+
Stay with me, Eames whispered, when they were on their sides, the entire length of his body flush against Arthur's, buried deep inside him. Stay here with me.
Arthur wanted to. He did.
He fell asleep that night enveloped in Eames' arms and the sweet, musky scent of him, and felt he could have stayed forever.
But he woke up in the middle of the night feeling much less certain. He couldn't uproot his entire life in New York. All his friends and family were there. He'd spent years of his life and thousands of dollars going through the schooling that would get him the job he held now. He couldn't throw that away. Not even for Eames, not even for France in the summer.
He didn't manage to fall asleep again for several hours. His stomach was a tight ball of apprehension. They had one more day together.
In the morning he found Eames on the sun porch, painting as usual. This time, instead of watching him from the warm nest of covers on the bed, Arthur got up and brought Eames a cup of tea. Setting it down on a table, he came up behind Eames, wrapped his arms around the other man's waist, and rested his chin on Eames' shoulder so that he could see the painting. It was his first time getting a good look at it. It wasn't yet complete, but the picture was solidly formed by now. It was the view from the cottage, sun porch in the foreground, frozen lake in the background. The light was muted, soft golds and peaches that hinted at early morning. Arthur was sure he recognized the man standing on the porch and cradling a cup of tea in the painting, even though his face was angled toward the lake.
“You weren't supposed to be in this one,” said Eames. “You snuck in. Cheeky bastard.”
In answer, Arthur cradled his jaw and tilted Eames' face toward him, so that he could kiss him. Eames chuckled softly into his mouth.
“Piss off, you. I'm working.”
“That never stopped you from bugging me,” said Arthur.
“True,” said Eames. He set down his brush and turned to kiss Arthur properly.
Again, Arthur didn't want to leave. He wanted to stand here forever, kissing Eames.
“Isn't it sad,” said Eames, when he'd turned back to his painting and picked up his brush again. “To think I've only ever been in love twice in my life.”
“Not really,” said Arthur quietly. “I've only been in love once.”
+
Eames drove him to the airport the next morning. They were silent for the entire drive.
At the airport Eames opened the trunk of the car and heaved Arthur's suitcase out for him.
“Well,” he said. Their breaths smoked in the crisp air.
Arthur stepped forward and kissed him. It wasn't the same. He could almost see Eames carefully constructing his emotional fortress once more, trying to keep Arthur at arm's length so that his leaving would hurt less.
“I'm having an art show in London next month,” said Eames, noncommittal. “You should come.”
“I don't know if I'll be able to get the time off work,” said Arthur.
Eames shrugged, looking aside. “Just a thought.”
“I'll talk to my boss,” Arthur promised, even though Cobb could be an unyielding dick at the best of times.
“You don't have to,” said Eames. “Just thought you might like--”
“I would,” Arthur cut him off quickly. “I would. Really. I just don't know ...”
“Okay,” said Eames.
They were like strangers again, relearning how to move in each other's presence. Arthur almost wished Eames would yell at him or break down or beg him to stay, anything but this complete shutting-down. It was harder, somehow, to take.
“Oh. Here.” Eames was reaching into the trunk again, pulling out a black leather portfolio. “These are some of my favourite drawings of you. Don't go selling them on Ebay.”
Arthur smiled. “I won't.”
“Take this, too.” Eames fished in his pocket for a moment and pulled out a money clip. He pressed it into Arthur's hand. “I've been owing you that for awhile.”
Arthur stared down at it. “Eames, you don't need to ...”
“I've been hanging onto that for some time now,” said Eames. “I've got no use for American money, so--” He shrugged. “You may as well take it.”
Arthur hesitated, then shoved it in his pocket. “Thanks.”
Turning, Eames slammed the trunk shut. “Have a good flight, Arthur,” he said.
Arthur had given Eames his address and phone number, but he still felt like there was something he was forgetting. To try and minimize the sting, he turned and left right then, so that he wouldn't have to try and put words to a goodbye.
He glanced over his shoulder just before he entered the airport terminal. Eames was leaning on his car, arms folded on the roof, watching him go.
“Ariadne's getting married in the spring,” Arthur called back to him. “You should be my plus one. She'd like to see you again.”
The corner of Eames' lip tilted upward wryly. “You think the States would let me back in by now?”
“I don't know,” said Arthur honestly. “We'll have to find out, won't we?”
Eames smiled for real, then, slowly.
“I suppose we will,” he said. “See you, Arthur Callahan.”
He would, Arthur thought, this time, walking away from Eames; he would.
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~4600
Rating: NC-17
Author's Note: Pretty much everyone who commented on The Sharpest Lives asked for a follow-up fic. I liked the open ending, but I am embarrassingly susceptible to peer pressure, so I decided to share what I imagined would have happened. Scuse any typos, it's late and I'm tired. xD
As Arthur told himself, this was a vacation from work. A well-deserved one. He just happened to be flying to London. If he happened to run into a certain artist by some extraordinary coincidence, all the better.
Of course, Arthur's idea of a coincidence was to look up Eames' exact living address in London. It was the first place he went when his plane landed in England, before he even booked himself a hotel.
The flat was somewhat dingy, not what he'd expected, based on Eames' vibrant paintings. And it was empty. Nobody answered when he knocked. The wind was taken considerably out of his sails.
He stood there for fifteen minutes, stumped, when an older lady with greying hair appeared and said, “Are you looking for Mr. Eames?”
Arthur nodded dumbly. “I'm a -- friend,” he said after a moment, in case she thought he was some kind of stalker (which, really, he was).
“Well, you won't find him here. He's at his cottage for the winter.”
“His cottage,” said Arthur, deflating a little. “Right. Of course. Thanks.”
He turned to go. It wasn't in the cards; the stars had not lined up in his favour. But then Arthur did something impulsive. He turned around before he reached the end of the hall, and called back to the lady, who was collecting the newspaper from outside Eames' door.
“Is he with anyone?”
“A housekeeper, occasionally, I suppose,” she shrugged.
“Right,” said Arthur. “Um, where would his cottage be, again?”
That afternoon Arthur was on a plane to France.
+
Eames' solitary cottage sat above a lake, had a thatched roof, and was covered in dried-out brown tendrils of ivy. Arthur had seen it before. He had the painting hanging in his living room. He stared at it for a few minutes before mustering the nerve to walk up the path and knock on the door.
The Eames that greeted him seemed very familiar. Apart from the scar on his cheek, and the fact that he looked, somehow, younger, fresher, he hardly appeared to have changed at all.
He folded his arms over his chest and leaned into the door jamb, eyes half-lidded. “Arthur,” he said, and even the distinct purr of the second syllable was the same.
Arthur had wondered, irrationally, if Eames would even recognize him, after only six years. Now, standing in front of him, Arthur's brain seemed to leave him entirely.
“Callahan,” he blurted out. “Uh, my last name. Not that I'm presumptuous enough to think that you'd have looked me up, or anything, if you knew it, I just -- I always thought I should've told you. Before you left.”
Eames seemed to chew on the inside of his cheek for a few moments. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled, a languid smile to match the lazy droop of his eyelids.
“Arthur Callahan,” he said, in the same slow purr. “I won't tell you my first name. It's poncey.”
Arthur hovered there for a minute while Eames just looked at him. Eventually he fidgeted.
“Um, can I come in?”
“Yes, of course,” said Eames immediately, like he'd only just remembered his manners. He stepped aside, and Arthur entered the cottage, suitcase in tow.
+
The cottage was quite tiny. It had a kitchen, bedroom, bathroom, main room, and a sun porch, which overlooked the lake. The furniture was nothing like Arthur's own modern set; it was rustic and quaint, giving the house a warm, worn, old-fashioned feel. A fire crackled in the hearth. Arthur spied an antique gramophone at one end. The main room was full of art supplies: sketches, pencils, canvasas, paints, and some things Arthur had no name for. He delicately shifted a blank canvas aside so he could take a seat on the couch while Eames dropped in front of an easel.
“I've been working on scenery,” he said, looking out at the sun porch. “Normally I like to paint people.”
“I know,” said Arthur. “I mean -- I have some of your paintings,” he said, flushing.
Eames simply nodded. Arthur's gaze was drawn to that scar on his cheek. He'd seen it when it was fresh and oozing blood. He didn't like it. It marred Eames' nice features.
“I stay here six months out of the year,” said Eames, still gazing across at the sun porch, the lake beyond. “Summer and winter.”
“It's beautiful here,” said Arthur, sorely wishing he could think of something more intelligent to say.
Eames nodded again. He seemed distracted. He raised a paintbrush to the easel in front of him and made a long stroke.
For awhile Arthur just watched him paint. He couldn't see the canvas from his vantage point; only Eames' face, which was intent and thoughtful. Now and then Eames would ask him a question about his life, and nod silently at Arthur's answers.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” he asked eventually.
“Not at the moment.” Arthur was sorting through some of Eames' sketches. Some of them he could barely make sense of; others were almost finished drawings. Though he was pretty sure he knew the answer, he said, “You?”
“Ha. Not in six years.” Eames narrowed his eyes at his painting, gazing at it with intense concentration. “Just haven't made room in my life for dating. I'm a bit of a hermit these days.”
“Oh,” said Arthur. He wasn't sure what to make of this quiet, subdued Eames.
In the evening Eames left his painting and prepared chicken and salad for dinner. They ate together in relative silence. Eames still seemed oddly distracted.
“Sorry,” he said. “I've fallen out of the habit of normal conversation. I rarely have company up here.”
“That's okay,” said Arthur.
“If I knew how to be more interesting, I would be.”
“You've always been interesting.”
Eames prodded his chicken with his fork and smiled. He had a peculiar way of smiling, Arthur noticed. He'd bite the inside of his cheek and then smile slowly, eyes downcast like he was thinking of something secret.
“You know,” said Arthur impulsively, “I missed you.”
“Did you now,” said Eames. It was Arthur's turn to nod.
“I have since you left. I didn't know what it was, at first. Just felt like something was missing, all those years. Then I saw your paintings and I knew.”
Eames smiled again, the same shy smile, not meeting Arthur's eyes.
They were silent again.
Afterward, when the dishes were cleared away, Eames took out a bottle of wine and they retired to the sun porch, which was attached to both the main room and the bedroom. They drank wine and watched the sun set over the lake, which was half frozen. Ducks paddled across and left long rippling Vs in their wake.
“He came after me, once,” said Eames, and Arthur knew who he was talking about. “To London. But there was nothing he could do. You'd seen to that. I guess he's not as confident when he's not on his own soil, either. He had to go back to America without me, and I never saw him again.” He poured himself some more wine and took a sip. “I wonder, sometimes, if he has a new boyfriend. I wonder if he ever learned to be happy with who he is.”
“Probably not,” said Arthur.
“No,” Eames agreed. “Probably not.”
They stayed on the porch until it grew dark and cold, and then Eames went to bed. Arthur slept on the couch.
+
In the morning, Eames made pancakes with cinnamon and apple slices. Arthur ate while he watched Eames paint. The silence between them should have been uncomfortable, but it felt companionable and easy. Arthur found himself liking the quietness and solitude of the lonely French cottage, so very far away from the hustle and bustle of New York.
He was starting to put his thumb on what was different about Eames. He was emotionally shuttered, hiding away his feelings so that nobody could see or exploit them. He looked the same, but he wasn't the easy-going joker Arthur had known six years ago. He was very far from it. Apart from the one on his face, he carried all his scars inside, and they were like a physical weight holding him down.
They had tea in the kitchen and Eames asked, “Any significant changes in your life since I last saw you?”
“Apart from working on Wall Street, instead of a grocery store?” Arthur considered. He was independent now, yes, but not much else had changed. “I have a cat now,” he offered.
Eames' lip curved upward. “What did you name it?”
Arthur paused. “Edith.”
That made Eames chuckle for the first time since Arthur had seen him. He shook his head and ducked it, grinning down at his tea.
“What?”
In answer Eames got up and went back into the main room. Arthur followed him. Eames was fiddling with the old gramophone. After a moment, there was a soft crackle, and then music began to play.
Non, rien de rien ...
“Non, je ne regrette rien,” Eames said softly in time with the song.
“Edith Piaf,” said Arthur.
Eames tilted his head in Arthur's direction and seemed to be smiling, genuinely smiling, for a moment.
“Do you have any regrets, Arthur?”
“I don't know,” said Arthur truthfully. “Do you?”
Eames stroked a finger over the arm of the gramophone. “Not a one,” he said.
In the old days, he'd have ordered Arthur to dance with him. Arthur would have pulled a face and Ariadne would have obliged, instead. Arthur would have said yes, had Eames asked then, but he didn't. He stopped the gramophone just as the music swelled.
“It's not my record,” he said. “But I like it anyway.”
“Hey,” said Arthur impulsively. “Can you still juggle?”
Eames laughed again, the sound music to Arthur's ears.
“Five of any item,” he said. “Challenge me.”
It took Arthur a minute to find five of anything in the tiny cottage. Eventually he came up with five pairs of balled-up socks. Eames made a face when Arthur presented them to him.
“I said challenge,” he protested, but he took three anyway and started juggling. The fourth, when Arthur tossed it to him, was no problem either. But when Arthur threw him the fifth, he fumbled and dropped it.
“Damn,” he said, catching the others. He frowned. “I guess it's been awhile.”
Arthur got the feeling that this bothered him more than he was letting on.
+
They had fish that night and afterward, while Eames cleared up, Arthur wandered the cottage and started tidying. Eames' housekeeper, wherever she was, was not very on top of things. The place was full of clutter. Arthur's nature would not let him ignore it any longer. He started cleaning up.
“Hey, now,” said Eames, when he walked into the main room. “I'll have you know, I've struck a very delicate balance here between bachelor chic and eccentric artist, and you're ruining all my efforts.”
“Really?” said Arthur, stacking all his blank canvases neatly. “Because it looks more like Hurricane Eames just decided to crash here one day.”
“It's an organized chaos,” Eames protested.
“And now it will be even more organized.”
“You're worse than a woman,” said Eames, but he went out onto the sun porch to work on his painting, and left Arthur to it.
The main room looked wonderfully tidy when Arthur was done with it. There was a smudge of paint on the floor he couldn't do anything about, but he shifted the coffee table over a few inches and the leg covered it well enough. He moved into Eames' bedroom: another disaster zone. Clothes were draped on every surface, including the rim of the laundry hamper, like they were trying to crawl inside and hadn't quite made it.
Arthur sighed. He threw everything that looked dirty into the hamper, and folded everything that looked clean. The dirty clothes were sorted into whites and coloureds next. When he was done, he hunkered down on the rug and looked underneath Eames' bed. More clothes. Resignedly he began pulling out pairs of jeans, old shirts that had somehow been kicked under there.
There was a rap on the glass door to the porch. Eames was just outside, smoking a cigarette.
“Out of there, you,” he called through the glass, jerking a thumb to emphasize his point. Arthur simply rolled his eyes, and Eames wandered out of sight again.
Behind the small mountain of clothes under the bed, there was a black leather book. Arthur pulled it out and ran his thumb over it. It had been bound shut. Carefully, he eased the band off it, ready to put the book away if it happened to be a private journal.
But it was a sketchbook, full of pictures of people. Arthur thumbed through it curiously. These were better than the sketches that had been left in the other room.
It wasn't full of pictures of people, he realized belatedly. Every drawing was of the same young man with the same dark hair. Every page was full of pictures of Arthur. Arthur reading a book. Arthur in a scarf. Arthur drinking a cup of Starbucks coffee. There were hundreds of them.
He realized his mouth was slightly agape when he looked up and saw Eames in the doorway. Eames was shaking his head jerkily.
“You shouldn't have ...”
“Eames,” said Arthur softly.
Eames buried his face in one hand, the other gripping the door.
“I think about you every single day,” he said, voice shaking dangerously. “And every single night. I have for six years.”
Arthur wanted to be able to say the same thing, but he'd been trying to put Eames out of mind. Maybe Eames deserved it, after all those nights he'd kept Arthur up worrying and pining, but Arthur knew he didn't, really. And he didn't deserve to look like this now, like Arthur had shattered every defense he had and left him broken and vulnerable, because after all these years he was still letting his heart rule him, and it would have been so easy for Arthur to take advantage of him then, reel him in and use him up and keep him coming back for more.
Arthur couldn't say I won't hurt you aloud, so he got up and crossed the room, pulled Eames' hand away from his face and let a kiss say it for him.
+
Falling into bed with someone had never felt so natural. Eames looked dazed, like he couldn't believe this was happening, as Arthur tugged impatiently at his shirt. When Arthur's own clothing followed, Eames drank him in like he'd never seen anything so beautiful, like he'd be happy to stop everything right there if he'd only be allowed to keep looking at Arthur. He touched, and touched, mapping the planes of Arthur's body with his hands, and it made Arthur feel awkward and self-conscious, except that there was so much reverence in Eames' gaze.
“I don't -- have condoms,” he stammered out finally, drawing his hands back as if he'd suddenly realized for the first time what Arthur's intentions were.
“I do,” said Arthur.
“Oh,” said Eames. He raised his eyebrows. “Thought I'd be that easy, did you?”
“They were just in case.”
“Ha,” said Eames, but he got up and found Arthur's suitcase and dug through it till he found the lube and condoms. Arthur rolled onto his stomach, spread his thighs and watched languidly over his shoulder, till Eames settled atop him and eased a slicked finger inside him. He laid his other hand on the small of Arthur's back, to feel the trembling down his spine.
“You're exquisite,” he murmured. “Like a painting.”
“What a weird thing to say,” Arthur replied, muffled into the pillow he was clutching, flushed and quivering and feeling his pulse throb in every part of his body. Eames laughed, really laughed. He added another finger as Arthur relaxed in increments, then a third.
“Six years is a bloody long dry spell,” he said, leaning down so that the words brushed Arthur's ear. “And it's been longer since I've topped. Don't expect too much, alright?”
Arthur wasn't normally one to get sentimental in bed, but he sensed that Eames needed it, so he said, “Nothing you do could disappoint me, Eames.”
Eames' fingers stilled inside him for a moment. When they resumed, they were slower and more gentle, stroking him open with unbearable patience until Arthur was trembling, needing more, the pressure not nearly enough, clenching his thighs to try and gain some friction between his cock and the bedcovers. Eames' patience must have been superhuman, or maybe he just enjoyed seeing Arthur like this, grinding his teeth so hard he thought they'd break, rocking back into Eames' hand, gritting out, “Come on, Eames, just -- get on with it, fuck--”
Eames hushed him, stroked his back lovingly. He took his fingers away and Arthur growled, but then Eames was laying kisses along the slope of his spine, and then he was there, pressing inside, and Arthur's growl twisted into something that more resembled a whine.
“Alright?” Eames asked when he could sink no deeper, his voice huskier than Arthur had ever heard it.
“Move,” was all Arthur managed.
Eames chuckled, and he did. He nuzzled along the back of Arthur's neck, just behind his jaw, so that Arthur could feel his tousled, sweat-damp strands of hair, and he rocked his hips steadily, with the same care and patience that made Arthur want to tear up the pillow under him. It felt foreign, even though Arthur had bottomed before; it felt like a sudden switch in gravity, utterly alien, and his body wasn't sure how to react, sending flurried messages to his brain and making his thoughts short-circuit. Maybe it was just that he hadn't done this in awhile, or maybe it was the way Eames fucked him, so smooth and relentless and so full inside him that it was almost overwhelming. The slow friction sent frissons of electricity to every nerve in Arthur's body, setting everything alight; his pulse hammered thickly in his neck and ears.
“God, Arthur,” Eames groaned, and already he sounded wrecked. His breath was hot and damp on Arthur's neck. “You're so -- you feel amazing, I can't--”
It was slow and it was tender and Arthur didn't know how badly he needed it. All he could do was make strained, muffled sounds into his arm and arch back into each of Eames' careful thrusts. His brain, completely fried, offered up the dazed thought that now Arthur knew, for the first time, what was meant by the term love-making. That was what Eames was doing -- loving Arthur with every inch of his body and every atom of his being. He was just as deft and precise when he reached under Arthur's hips and began to jerk him, gently. Arthur kept waiting for him to speed up, but he didn't; he kept the same tempered pace like he wanted to savour every second and map him out entirely, and soon he'd found which precise angle made Arthur's breath hitch, and where to touch him that made shudder all over, till the sounds Arthur was making were less sounds than sobs of breath. And Eames was still murmuring into Arthur's ear, and it took him a minute to make sense of the litany of words that were spilling past Eames' lips--
I love you, I love you, God I love you ...
They came within seconds of each other. Arthur had never felt so completely and thoroughly exposed, like Eames had turned him inside out in order to examine every part of him. He felt like nobody had ever really known him until now. He'd never felt so complete, and he suspected Eames hadn't, either.
+
Arthur spent the entire week in the cottage, not leaving once. He and Eames spent more time in bed than anywhere else. They relearned each other's voices and habits, explored each other's bodies. He'd never been so intimate with anyone. He could almost watch as Eames' emotional armour fell away, piece by piece.
Mornings were Arthur's favourite time of day. He would wake tangled in the cotton sheets and he'd watch from the bed while Eames painted on the porch, trying to capture the mist rolling off the lake. He'd get up, pull on a pair of jeans and the closest sweater at hand and venture into the kitchen, yawning and shivering from the morning chill, and make tea and breakfast. Eames would join him by the time it was ready, and they'd eat together, and then go back to bed, curl up under the covers snuggled together to stave off the cold, and sometimes they'd go back to sleep; sometimes they wouldn't.
Evenings were nice, too. That was when they would sit on the sun porch together and share a bottle of wine, just sit and watch the sun set over the lake.
“This place is so beautiful,” Arthur murmured, wrapped up in a blanket in his chair. Eames nodded contemplatively.
“It belonged to my dad,” he said. “My stepmother got it when he died, and she gave it to me when she passed away. She gave me everything, actually,” he said, looking down at his wine. “She was very good to me, considering the circumstances under which I showed up on her doorstep.”
“You left that day, then,” said Arthur.
“Two minutes after you did.”
Eames sipped his wine and gazed pensively over the lake. Lightly, he touched a hand to his ribcage.
“Still hurts, you know. Just little twinges now and then. Makes me think of you. In the best possible way, of course. Everything does, though.”
The sun had slipped beyond the lake. They sat, and watched, as the stars came out one by one.
“I bet this place is even more beautiful in summer,” said Arthur, in a hushed voice.
Eames chewed his lip, ducked his head and smiled secretively.
“You'll have to find out, won't you?”
+
Stay with me, Eames whispered, when they were on their sides, the entire length of his body flush against Arthur's, buried deep inside him. Stay here with me.
Arthur wanted to. He did.
He fell asleep that night enveloped in Eames' arms and the sweet, musky scent of him, and felt he could have stayed forever.
But he woke up in the middle of the night feeling much less certain. He couldn't uproot his entire life in New York. All his friends and family were there. He'd spent years of his life and thousands of dollars going through the schooling that would get him the job he held now. He couldn't throw that away. Not even for Eames, not even for France in the summer.
He didn't manage to fall asleep again for several hours. His stomach was a tight ball of apprehension. They had one more day together.
In the morning he found Eames on the sun porch, painting as usual. This time, instead of watching him from the warm nest of covers on the bed, Arthur got up and brought Eames a cup of tea. Setting it down on a table, he came up behind Eames, wrapped his arms around the other man's waist, and rested his chin on Eames' shoulder so that he could see the painting. It was his first time getting a good look at it. It wasn't yet complete, but the picture was solidly formed by now. It was the view from the cottage, sun porch in the foreground, frozen lake in the background. The light was muted, soft golds and peaches that hinted at early morning. Arthur was sure he recognized the man standing on the porch and cradling a cup of tea in the painting, even though his face was angled toward the lake.
“You weren't supposed to be in this one,” said Eames. “You snuck in. Cheeky bastard.”
In answer, Arthur cradled his jaw and tilted Eames' face toward him, so that he could kiss him. Eames chuckled softly into his mouth.
“Piss off, you. I'm working.”
“That never stopped you from bugging me,” said Arthur.
“True,” said Eames. He set down his brush and turned to kiss Arthur properly.
Again, Arthur didn't want to leave. He wanted to stand here forever, kissing Eames.
“Isn't it sad,” said Eames, when he'd turned back to his painting and picked up his brush again. “To think I've only ever been in love twice in my life.”
“Not really,” said Arthur quietly. “I've only been in love once.”
+
Eames drove him to the airport the next morning. They were silent for the entire drive.
At the airport Eames opened the trunk of the car and heaved Arthur's suitcase out for him.
“Well,” he said. Their breaths smoked in the crisp air.
Arthur stepped forward and kissed him. It wasn't the same. He could almost see Eames carefully constructing his emotional fortress once more, trying to keep Arthur at arm's length so that his leaving would hurt less.
“I'm having an art show in London next month,” said Eames, noncommittal. “You should come.”
“I don't know if I'll be able to get the time off work,” said Arthur.
Eames shrugged, looking aside. “Just a thought.”
“I'll talk to my boss,” Arthur promised, even though Cobb could be an unyielding dick at the best of times.
“You don't have to,” said Eames. “Just thought you might like--”
“I would,” Arthur cut him off quickly. “I would. Really. I just don't know ...”
“Okay,” said Eames.
They were like strangers again, relearning how to move in each other's presence. Arthur almost wished Eames would yell at him or break down or beg him to stay, anything but this complete shutting-down. It was harder, somehow, to take.
“Oh. Here.” Eames was reaching into the trunk again, pulling out a black leather portfolio. “These are some of my favourite drawings of you. Don't go selling them on Ebay.”
Arthur smiled. “I won't.”
“Take this, too.” Eames fished in his pocket for a moment and pulled out a money clip. He pressed it into Arthur's hand. “I've been owing you that for awhile.”
Arthur stared down at it. “Eames, you don't need to ...”
“I've been hanging onto that for some time now,” said Eames. “I've got no use for American money, so--” He shrugged. “You may as well take it.”
Arthur hesitated, then shoved it in his pocket. “Thanks.”
Turning, Eames slammed the trunk shut. “Have a good flight, Arthur,” he said.
Arthur had given Eames his address and phone number, but he still felt like there was something he was forgetting. To try and minimize the sting, he turned and left right then, so that he wouldn't have to try and put words to a goodbye.
He glanced over his shoulder just before he entered the airport terminal. Eames was leaning on his car, arms folded on the roof, watching him go.
“Ariadne's getting married in the spring,” Arthur called back to him. “You should be my plus one. She'd like to see you again.”
The corner of Eames' lip tilted upward wryly. “You think the States would let me back in by now?”
“I don't know,” said Arthur honestly. “We'll have to find out, won't we?”
Eames smiled for real, then, slowly.
“I suppose we will,” he said. “See you, Arthur Callahan.”
He would, Arthur thought, this time, walking away from Eames; he would.