Rough Trade, 1/2
Title: Rough Trade (you are now shooting at your imaginary friend in front of 400 gallons of nitroglycerin)
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~10,200 (this part)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Language, references to depression, rough sex.
Author's Note: Based on this prompt on the kinkmeme. I am too lazy to keep anon-ing xD
I hoped to finish this today, because on Boxing Day I'll be leaving for a week to go skiing, but that was a bust. Hopefully 10,000 words will tide you all over? ETA: Part two is here.
PS! MERRY CHRISTMAS! :D
The craving comes back on the first night Arthur doesn't stay at his office past nine o'clock in two weeks.
It always comes back when he's feeling like this: Especially burnt out, hating his job, hating his life, sick and tired and desperate. It's been about a month since the last time, because it takes about three weeks for it to build up to this point, and then another week before he decides that the brief but immense gratification will be worth the amount of self-loathing he'll feel afterward.
He leaves the office at eight, and goes to a gay bar.
It's a different one than last time. He doesn't want to be recognized or remembered. It's almost a hundred blocks away from his apartment and when the cab pulls up, he regards it with distaste. It's a small, trashy dive of a place.
He hands a few bills to the cab driver and gets out anyway.
The interior is no more impressive than the exterior. The place is dimly-lit and there's a general air of seediness hanging around. Arthur draws a few gazes from the patrons as he approaches the bar, and feels a flicker of resentment. They're mostly older men, and not the type that interests him. Soft, affectatious queers in their forties and fifties who watch him yearningly because the days are long gone when they could have hooked up with something as young and attractive as Arthur.
He takes a seat at the bar and orders a drink. He always needs at least one before he starts feeling less bothered by the atmosphere of the place, like its griminess is clinging to him, and the depravity of his mission.
He's on his second beer when a stranger drops onto the stool at his side and drawls, “You look like you're on the wrong side of the tracks, kitten.”
Arthur frowns and glances down at himself. Waistcoat but no jacket, loosened tie, collared shirt with the top two buttons undone. It's as dressed-down as he gets on a weeknight.
“Shall I give you directions back to the Upper West Side?” the man inquires mildly, and that makes Arthur scowl. It's a coincidence that his apartment is located there. “Or, on the off chance that you are indeed in the right place, can I buy you a drink?”
“Look,” Arthur says stiffly, staring fixedly at his beer. “I didn't come here for conversation. I didn't come to get into a relationship. All I want is stupid, meaningless sex. Unless you can help me with that, please leave me alone.”
The man seems taken aback by Arthur's bluntness.
“Well,” he says, after a pause. “I think I can do something for you, then.”
Arthur turns his head and takes the man in for the first time. Big, solid-framed; muscular arms; stubbled face. They don't really come more masculine than this. Arthur's vitriolic sense of self-preservation wages war with his repressed, starving id briefly.
“Fine.” He shrugs, slaps a couple bills down on the bar, and gets up. “Let's go. And my name isn't kitten. It's Arthur.”
“Eames.” The stranger smiles broadly, gets to his feet and slings an arm around Arthur's waist, which makes him bristle. “I have a place not far from here.”
&
Eames' place is a hovel. It doesn't even have rooms, and not in a chic studio apartment way. Everything's crammed together: kitchenette, toilet, bed. Takeaway boxes are piled in one corner and the bed is unmade.
“'Scuse the mess.” Eames flips on the lamp next to the bed. “I imagine it's not what you're used to.”
Arthur rolls his eyes and starts stripping off his clothes. Eames takes his lead and starts shrugging out of his own clothing.
“You've got a nice body for a pencil pusher,” he says appreciatively, surprised, looking Arthur over.
“We don't need to talk,” Arthur says, sitting on the edge of the bed so he can pull off his pants and shoes together. “Let's just fuck.”
“Alright then,” says Eames.
Once he's naked, Arthur flops back onto the bed and watches Eames strip off, revealing inked flesh and more muscles. It sends a shiver of -- something through Arthur's stomach. Trepidation. Fear. Want. He isn't sure. Probably all three. He rolls onto all fours before Eames starts unbuckling his pants, because he doesn't want to look at Eames' cock in case it makes this too real for him. He just wants it inside him.
He half-watches while Eames pulls open the bedside table drawer and fishes for a condom, then listens to him tear it open and roll it on. He hears the snap of a cap of lube and swallows, shuffling his knees further apart, eyes squeezed shut in anticipation.
It burns like fury when Eames pushes the head of his cock into him, stretching him before he's ready.
“Fuck!” Arthur snarls, hands screwing into the covers, bucking a little instinctively in a vain attempt to throw Eames off. “Asshole! You didn't even--”
He has to break off with a strangled sound when Eames shoves himself in deeper.
“No talking,” he mocks softly next to Arthur's ear, sounding amused at the quivering mess he's immediately reduced Arthur to.
He starts thrusting. Arthur, in turn, keeps his mouth shut, braces on his hands and knees, and takes it. It's hard -- Eames is huge, bigger than any of Arthur's partners thus far, almost too much for him to handle, especially without any preparation or warning. Part of him wants to say stop, but most of him doesn't because this is so exactly what he needs right now. He needs to be used and bruised and just fucked. The pace Eames sets is fast and rough, and his hands wrapped around either side of Arthur's waist clench with every thrust, leaving deep scores from his nails on Arthur's stomach.
And he loves this, he does, just letting go and being debased and filthy like this, but Eames is brutal -- both in girth and the force with which he fucks into Arthur -- and when Arthur thinks he can speak, he opens his mouth, dizzy, and says, “Do you think you can -- maybe--”
He's not sure what he intends to say, maybe slow down or take it easy, but just then Eames' teeth are fastened in the junction between his neck and shoulder, and he bites down hard. Immediately Arthur is making this feeble whining sound, and that makes Eames bite harder, which hurts worse; but when he lets go, the sudden release of pressure feels good. Eames' stubble scrapes over his shoulder then and Arthur shudders, feeling him nuzzle into the bruise roughly.
For some reason it's right then that he has this stupid thought -- I'm being fucked by some stranger I just met and he could seriously hurt me -- and simultaneously realizes, he is completely, blindingly hard. At once, he braces his weight on one arm and wraps his other hand around himself. He can't believe how good it feels. Head-to-toe, his whole body is coming alive; but nowhere more than where he and Eames are joined.
“Harder,” he hears himself rasp.
Eames snorts a laugh behind him and, in response, shoves down on Arthur right between the shoulderblades. His quavering arm buckles and he lands on his shoulder before Eames rights him, so that he's flat on his chest with his ass in the air. Frustrated, he moves to plant his hand in the mattress and prop himself up again, but Eames captures his wrist in one hand and squeezes hard. When Arthur stills -- snarling at the humiliating attitude, but compliant -- Eames brings both hands to his ass cheeks and grips tight enough to leave bruises, pushing them further apart so he can cram himself deeper.
Arthur feels like he's being split in half. He's never had sex like this before -- where his partner just takes him, forcing him into a complete surrender. And all he can do is spread his knees even more and rock helplessly back into Eames' thrusts, like a cockhungry slut begging for more, and jerk himself off in quick, unsteady movements. He tilts his face into the pillow and feels sogginess against his cheek where he's been panting like a dog.
He knows he's close when he hears himself groaning out random fricatives, mindlessly. Eames must know it, too, because all of a sudden he shifts angle, and takes his hand away from Arthur's ass to slap his hand off his cock. He takes Arthur in hand himself, and his grip is strong and sure.
Arthur shivers -- he's never let any of them touch his cock before -- but it seems absurdly natural here and besides, he doesn't have it in him to voice a protest anyway. The build-up in his gut is a delicious, fizzing heat. He can feel it now, he's so close--
Eames' grip tightens painfully and he pumps Arthur quickly a few more times, and that's it, Arthur's spilling himself all over Eames' hand and the sheets, muffling his gasps into the pillow so that he half suffocates himself. His release is so great he almost blacks out.
Eames is still pounding into him, and all Arthur can do is writhe senselessly and groan until Eames screws into him one last time and goes still. Arthur can feel the jerk and throb of heat through the condom inside him.
At last, Eames pulls out and moves aside, and Arthur's abused hole is finally allowed to clench and then relax. He stretches out flat on his stomach and catches his breath, his heart slowing from its frantic, stuttered pace. Eames hits the mattress at his side, equally soaked in sweat. Arthur steals a covert glance at him as he peels the condom off and ties it. There's a streak of blood on it.
Eames flicks it carelessly at the trash can. “Hope I wasn't too rough on you.”
Arthur shakes his head. He feels like he's fucking floating, all his limbs are so light and his mind so blissfully blank. For once, he actually feels good. He stretches again, willing himself not to fall asleep, even though he's exhausted.
By the time his heart has slowed to its normal resting pace, his good feelings are already evaporating away. He just let himself get fucked by this thuggish brute he picked up in a gay bar, and incredible sex aside, he just feels bruised and ashamed and a little nauseous. He's not sure the thirty-or-so seconds of immeasurable bliss were worth it. In fact, even taking the sex into account, there's nothing about this exchange that wasn't repugnant.
Arthur always leaves these situations feeling dirty and ashamed of himself, but something about this time just feels particular vile. He hates this scummy apartment and the stained bed and he hates how easily he gave over and just let Eames own him. He hates the marks on his wrist and his sides and his ass, little reminders to pain him through the rest of this week.
He gathers his shaky limbs and rolls off the bed to get dressed. Without looking at Eames, he says, “Thanks.”
“For what?” Eames asks amusedly. Arthur doesn't know what to say. Thanks for the best orgasm of my entire life?
He loathes himself. As soon as his clothes are on and he looks halfway presentable, he grabs his wallet, fishes out two fifties and throws them on the bed, because he doesn't know what else to do. Eames starts to straighten up a little.
“Hey, wait a minute--”
Arthur leaves the apartment and as soon as the door is closed, he gallops down the stairs before Eames can get dressed and follow him. That was the last time, he promises himself. For real this time.
&
Arthur is a lot of things.
Arthur is an investment banker. He is professional and efficient. He's a halfway decent cook. He's totally independent and has been since the age of eighteen. Maybe he's tired all the time because he works about ninety hours a week which is twice what normal people do, but he's rich and he's competent at his job. He's almost thirty, and already a success.
And there are some things Arthur is not.
For instance: Arthur is not gay.
He's not.
When he wakes up in the morning the first thing he feels is profound, abiding shame. He always does. Always feels fucking disgusted at himself. There's an ache in his ass -- because he had some man's cock rammed in there.
Fuck.
He crawls out of bed, slogs into the bathroom and winces at the vicious scratches on his sides and stomach, set amongst dark bruises. He's bruised everywhere, fuck -- he looks in the mirror and frowns, touching a hand to the bite mark on his neck. He really hopes his collar will cover it.
He'd showered last night, of course, but he does again, as if he can steam away the feeling of residual sweat (not his own) and the phantom smell of male musk and come. He wishes he could stand in a sterilizing autoclave and scald it all off.
He looks down bleakly and realizes he's hard, really hard. There are bruises on his dick for God's sake. He thinks about how Eames' hand had gripped him and has to close his eyes and think of something else, or nothing at all, and ends up reciting the Star Spangled Banner in his head twice -- the whole thing, not just the first stanza -- before his erection goes away.
Never again, he reminds himself.
Arthur knows of one sure-fire way to distract himself from any and all thoughts of being fucked by a man last night: To work and work until he runs himself into the fucking ground.
He downs a few caffeine pills, orders himself a venti-sized espresso with double shots from the Starbucks down the street, and goes to work.
&
Arthur is lonely.
He's an investment banker. He spent six years of his life and thousands of dollars working his ass off in school to get a job he doesn't even really like. He can cook, but he lives off of take-out when he bothers to eat at all, because people who cook generally have people to cook for, and Arthur does not. He's independent and has been since eighteen because he has no family to speak of, not unless you count a brother who moved to Brisbane and never calls. He's never had a committed relationship in his life, never had a steady girlfriend, never even come close to thinking about marriage because he's much too busy for that. He's wealthy, but he's fucking exhausted all the time, all the time, and he feels this perpetual sense of desperation. He's almost thirty years old, and he feels like he's sixty.
Arthur is lonely as fuck.
Only he doesn't know this, because among other things, Arthur is a misanthrope with few people skills to speak of.
So he crawls through life like a dying dog, amazing and competent at his job but always missing something, and he repeats to himself over and over, If I can just get through this month.
If I can just get through November, then I'll feel better.
And he never does and he keeps saying it anyway, until he gets so desperate and tired and frustrated that he does something crazy and self-destructive and risky.
He had sex with a man for the first time six months ago and hasn't been able to stop yet. It's the only thing that makes him feel better. Even if it's just for a few minutes. At least it's something. Even if he hates himself for it. At least he feels something.
Right?
&
All throughout work that day he finds his hand drifting to the bruise under his collar, fingertips pressing into it just hard enough to make it hurt. Then he remembers Eames' crooked teeth sinking into his neck, and forcibly tells himself to stop. But he's distracted all day long -- namely, by thoughts of Eames.
He doesn't understand, because nobody in the past has stuck with Arthur like this before. Usually he fucks and forgets as soon as he possibly can, flushing the memory from mind. But Eames stays with him. He rankles at Arthur like a bug bite on his brain. His memory makes Arthur burn with embarrassment and shift uncomfortably in his seat. He's never let anybody take him like that before. Everything about their exchange was humiliating, degrading...
Never mind the fact that he hasn't come like that since he was a teenager. If ever.
His mind is buzzing all day long and he does something unprecedented: he ends up leaving work early for the second day in a row.
It's Friday. Arthur doesn't like Fridays like other people do. Weekends only serve to remind him that he's chained to his work and has nothing to do outside of that. But the rest of New York is coming alive, celebrating another work week done -- one more week down, so many hundreds to go before retirement -- so Arthur goes to a club. He picks up the easiest girl he can find and takes her back to his place. He's determined to scrub Eames' memory off his body and out of his mind.
It takes him forever to get hard enough. The girl's patient, thankfully, and she takes it slow with him until his dick finally gets with the program and is standing at full attention. But when they fuck, he takes even longer to get off. It gets to the point where he thinks he's going to have to fake an orgasm, and isn't that embarrassing -- this is getting ridiculous at any rate, sex has never been so dissatisfying--
And then he closes his eyes, and he can feel Eames' fingertips clenched in his sides, and Eames' rough hand around his cock, and Eames' cock filling him up--
His climax is sudden and weak, startling him.
&
It's like that all week. Eames plagues him constantly. Arthur doesn't have sex again, but he does jerk off, determinedly. He thinks of breasts, his mouth on them. The slick heat of a woman around him. He does this for about thirty minutes, struggling to maintain his erection without thinking of Eames, and finally admits defeat.
He works and works. He ends up spending a night at the office when he accidentally falls asleep at his desk. He's so fucking tired he could cry and for the first time he has to beg himself, Just get through this week--
But he knows he won't feel better even if he does.
That's why, the next Thursday, he hails a cab after work and gives the driver the address to the same seedy little gay bar at the southern end of Manhattan. Because he can't feel any worse than this, it's not possible.
Still, part of him is a little relieved when he walks in and sees that Eames isn't there. He determinedly ignores the part that isn't relieved, and orders a beer, because he may as well.
“Kitten,” a husky voice drawls behind him just as he takes his first sip. “You came back.”
Arthur swallows wrong and coughs. Eames slides adroitly onto the stool at his side, looking just the same as before.
“I was afraid I'd scared you off.”
When Arthur has his throat under control and his eyes have stopped watering, he takes a deep breath, abhorring himself for what's about to come out of his mouth.
“I'll give you another hundred dollars to do the same thing as last week.”
Immediately Eames sneers. “Keep your sodding money,” he says. “I'm not a bloody prostitute.”
He turns away, and Arthur lets go of his breath. There, he thinks. He's not going to sleep with you, thank God. Now you can leave. Now you can move on.
But Eames is just saying something to the bartender. He turns back to Arthur and gets to his feet, placing a hand at the small of Arthur's back.
“Come on, then. My place again, yeah?”
There's a conflicting emotion in Arthur's chest as he resignedly follows Eames to the door. He isn't sure if it's a heaviness in his heart, or if he actually feels lighter than he has in years.
&
Once they're in the apartment he expects it to go the same, and starts unbuttoning his shirt. But almost immediately Eames is there, taking Arthur by the wrists, pulling his hands away and starting to undo the shirt himself. His fingers are deft and nimble and he strips Arthur in record time, Arthur barely keeping up fast enough to tug off his socks and shoes; and as soon as he's naked, Eames shoves him onto the bed. The mattress creaks under Arthur's weight and the sound triggers a memory from last week, the obscene creak of the mattress under his knees with every one of Eames' thrusts. Instantly, he's hard.
He waits for Eames to start stripping off, too, but instead, Eames just unzips and tugs his jeans down far enough to expose his cock. Arthur rolls aside swiftly, before he can get a good look at it, getting on all fours. He hears Eames rummage in the bedside table drawer and practically begs, his whole body pulsing, “Just fuck me.”
Eames lays a hand on Arthur's back, just above the base of his spine, and the coolness of his palm makes Arthur realize for the first time how flushed he is from head to toe. “Oh, pet,” says Eames.
He makes Arthur wait while he rolls the condom on and grabs the lube, till Arthur's practically shaking; and then, kneeling behind him and placing a hand between his shoulderblades, Eames pushes him down onto his chest.
“No,” Arthur argues, trying to push himself back up, feeling a hot wave of resentment return, “I don't want--”
“I like you like this,” says Eames, holding him there with both hands now. “That gorgeous little arsehole of yours on display for me--”
Arthur snarls and squirms. “Fuck you--”
“Oh no, Arthur,” says Eames, and his voice drops into something low and almost bitter, “fuck you--” and he punctuates this by shoving his cock inside Arthur, not stopping till he's buried to the hilt, even though Arthur just about wails.
“Fuck you,” he sobs breathlessly, and it seems to be all he's able to say for the next few minutes, face half-buried in the pillow. “Fuck you, God--”
He can't see, he can't breathe, he can't stop shoving himself back into each of Eames' thrusts, and it's just like the last time, that hurts-so-good sensation his body just can't reconcile with or make up its mind about; except the difference this time is that Eames is clothed, and Arthur is not. And Arthur hates him for this; hates Eames for making him hot like this, God -- it's so wrong, all of it, because this fucking thug he just met last week shouldn't seem attractive to him at all, and a man should not be the best sex of Arthur's entire life; but he can't control the way his body is lighting up for Eames any more than he could control the lukewarm way it had responded to that girl he'd picked up.
He's never been so hard, even before Eames reaches around and wraps a hand around his cock, which makes him lightheaded. Eames' other hand slots into the bruises he'd left on Arthur's side and he scrapes his nails along the lingering marks, and Arthur just groans noisily, the volume of his voice as beyond his control as everything else.
“Let go, Arthur, go on, you have no idea how perfect you are like this--”
All Arthur can do is spread his thighs till they hurt and choke, “Fuck you.”
Eames takes his hand away from Arthur's cock briefly to wrench Arthur's thighs even further apart, surely leaving more bruises, till Arthur whines in pain, and he reaches back to touch himself before Eames takes over again. Getting off has suddenly never seemed so important. The bed creaks and jolts violently under them, their skin slaps together and with the sounds Arthur is making coupled with Eames' hoarse groans, he's shocked none of Eames' neighbours are yelling at them to keep it down.
And that thought is extinguished almost immediately as Eames wraps his free arm around Arthur's hips, to help hold him up, and changes the angle of his thrusts, and Arthur sees stars. His whole body jolts, his limbs go weak, he's in fucking space, weightless, lightheaded, without oxygen; and Eames thrusts in again and again and again and Arthur's writhing, clawing the sheets, spilling out a blur of almost-unintelligible words.
“Stop stop fuck oh God too much Eames fuck fuck I can't please--”
Eames laughs at him, jerks him steadily and keeps fucking into him right there until it really is too much, and Arthur comes with a shout that might be part scream; he can't tell over the roaring in his ears.
His whole body quakes under the force of it. His cock throbs violently in Eames' hand, his muscles contract tight around Eames rhythmically, his vision blurs and goes white. And on, and on. It's like a tidal wave of sensation and for a second he's out-of-body, snipped clean away, connected to nothing, floating.
When he recovers his senses, blood fizzling in his ears, he's slumped in Eames' arms. Eames is soft inside him, kneeling with Arthur half in his lap, still clasping him around the waist, and breathing hard.
“Fuck, Arthur,” he says, disbelief and reverence colouring his tone.
Arthur squirms out of his lap until Eames slips out of him, and lies flat to catch his breath. Eames flops down at his side.
“Fuck,” he says again, still panting.
Arthur rolls onto his back, avoiding the wet spots, and stares up at the waterstains on the ceiling. His chest heaves. They catch their breath for a few minutes.
“Arthur,” says Eames, rolling on his side to look at him. “Seriously, that was -- were you there, just now? And you don't have anything to say?”
“I'm not gay,” says Arthur.
Eames is silent at his side for a moment. Then he snorts.
“You've let me fuck you six ways from Sunday twice now, I'd say that makes you at least--”
“I'm not gay,” Arthur repeats sharply. “I'm not bisexual. I'm straight. I just happen to--”
“Happen to enjoy getting buggered up the arse? Right, that makes sense, then.”
“Fuck off,” says Arthur, struggling to push himself upright and off the bed. His stomach muscles are killing him; he has to lever himself up with his arms. As he starts to gather up his clothes he says, “I just don't want you to misunderstand me.”
“What's there to misunderstand?” Eames sneers. “That I didn't just give you the most mind-blowing fuck of your entire life?”
“No,” Arthur snaps, tugging on his pants. “I don't want you to think I'd ever be interested in having a relationship with you. Because frankly, I find the thought fucking repulsive.”
“Sorry?” Eames rolls onto his back as well, stretching his arms above his head. He hasn't bothered to pull his pants up, unabashed about his nakedness. “Can't hear you, mate, you're too deep in the closet.”
“I'm not going to make a habit of this,” says Arthur. He yanks his shirt on. “Just so you understand.”
“I understand you're a repressed, cockhungry coward if that's what you mean.” Eames folds his arms under his head, eyes hooded and dark. “My door's always open, Arthur.”
Arthur storms out, which is no easy task, considering the wobble in his legs.
&
In the first week of December, Arthur receives a Christmas card in the mail from his brother. His brother who is four years younger than Arthur and already tied down with a wife and toddler, who moved to Australia after dropping out of community college and now runs a tattoo parlour, and personifies Arthur's idea of a failure. He takes out the photo tucked inside the card and regards his brother and sister-in-law and nephew he's never met, kneeling on a beach beside a sand castle and all three grinning.
His brother is a failure and sometimes Arthur is so fucking jealous of him it makes him sick.
He doesn't have a word for the resentment that fills him when he looks at the photo, so he puts it away someplace he won't have to see it.
When this year is over, he's going to feel better. As soon as December ends and the new year begins. He swears it to himself. For real, this time.
At present, he doesn't feel much of anything. He seems to blink one day and Fifth Avenue is decorated to the nines for Christmas, and when did that happen? He doesn't even remember Thanksgiving. He probably spent it at work.
So: Christmas. Every year it happens the same; Arthur finds himself a bunch of travel brochures to far-away places, and he spreads them out on his desk, and he goes through each one, front to back. Cruises and resorts, tropical islands. He makes promises to himself. He's going to take a week off at Christmas. He's going to take his bonus and he's going to go somewhere. Someplace nice. Someplace relaxing. Cancun. Cuba. The Bahamas.
His bonus goes in the bank. His week off doesn't even make it off the ground. He goes back to the office. And the spreadsheets, and the numbers, and.
Oh well. Fantasizing about it is almost as good, anyway.
&
“What d'you do for a living, Arthur?”
Arthur crams his hands deeper into his coat pockets, ducks his chin into his scarf. Eames' place is three minutes away from the bar. Arthur keeps telling him they don't need to talk. Eames likes to ignore him.
“Hmm, let me guess,” says Eames, evidently interpreting Arthur's silence as a challenge. “You wear three-piece suits to work, though you've usually dropped the jacket by the time you go out drinking, so it's something corporate, but it's not something you enjoy. Maybe a lawyer -- but you're not creative, you're analytical, you're all about facts, aren't you, so I bet it's numbers. You're straitlaced enough to be in finance. But your cellphone never goes off when you're out, so I don't imagine you're in stocks.”
“My Christmas bonus is more than your apartment's worth,” says Arthur, acerbic as always. “That's your only hint.”
“I think you're an investment banker,” says Eames.
Arthur huffs into his scarf, using his breath to warm his face. “Lucky guess.”
“Don't you want to know what I do?”
“No.”
Eames hands him a business card. Arthur takes it in spite of himself. It takes him several seconds to realize he's looking at his own card. Investment Banker is printed crisply under his own name.
“How did you--”
Eames hands over Arthur's wallet. Arthur flushes angrily as he snatches it back.
“So you're a thief.”
“A pickpocket,” says Eames modestly. “And sometimes a street magician. And I occasionally devote myself to somewhat shadier pursuits. But we needn't go into that.”
In spite of himself, Arthur laughs, rubbing a hand over his face tiredly. Eames looks at him sidelong.
“Something funny?”
“No, it's just -- God, I worked eighteen hours yesterday -- I'm so tired I could fucking drop and you, you're a fucking bum, you don't even have a real job -- just, never mind,” he says, because he doesn't remember why it was funny, or if it ever was. He's just tired, and borderline delirious because of it.
“How many hours did you spend sleeping last night?” Eames asks curiously, like he can read Arthur's mind. Arthur shakes his head irritably.
“I said never mind,” he says, because they're at the building now.
They stop talking for awhile after that. It's just rough curses spat at each other in the dark, same as always, the same violent clashing together that they've been doing for six weeks, till Arthur's whole body sings with pain and he can't move a muscle--
His eyes snap open at a sudden sound. Eames, taking a piss in the toilet that's next to the squashed kitchenette. He glances over at Arthur when the latter stirs.
“Didn't mean to wake you, sorry.”
“What -- when did I --” Arthur squints in the dark, and suddenly the words sink in. He fucking fell asleep. In Eames' apartment, in Eames' bed-- “Fuck, fuck,” he chants, twisting around in the sheets. “Fuck, where's your -- Eames, what's the fucking time!”
Eames finishes what he's doing, plucks something off the floor and throws it at Arthur before wandering to the sink. Arthur fumbles with it. A cellphone. It flashes the time brightly when he flips it open. 4:17.
“Fuck!” Arthur shouts, frustrated. He nearly falls out of bed, miscalculating his ability to move his lower body, on his way to locate his clothing. “Fuck, fuck, shit, why did you let me fall asleep, asshole!”
“You seemed so tired,” Eames shrugs. “Thought you could use the rest.”
“You piece of shit!” Arthur scrambles around, dressing as quickly as he possibly can in the dark. He's so angry. Fuck Eames, fuck him and his constant need to ruin Arthur's fucking life. “I have a meeting, I'm never getting back to sleep tonight, I, fuck, you useless fucking asshole, Eames--”
Eames crawls back into bed with a shuddering yawn and for one surreal second, Arthur wants to join him, crawl back under the covers where it's warm and go back to sleep and not have to think about the one hundred blocks between him and his own apartment, how cold it is outside or his meeting in the morning.
He tucks his scarf haphazardly into his coat and leaves the apartment in a hurry.
“See you next week,” Eames calls after him sleepily.
“Yeah right,” Arthur snarls before he slams the door. He says something to this effect every time.
So much for not making this a habit.
&
It's when Arthur breaks his own personal record of a hundred-hour work week by working a hundred and thirteen hours that he thinks something might be really wrong with him.
He's exhausted almost to the point of tears. Cobb calls him into his office for a talk and all Arthur can do is stare blearily at the pictures Cobb's got on his desk of his beautiful wife and two kids, and wonder why everyone else's life is allowed to be so much better than his.
“Got any plans for Christmas?” Cobb asks, just as Arthur's getting up.
“Oh ... no ... no,” Arthur answers vaguely. “Not really. No family, so ...” He shrugs feebly.
“You're welcome to join me and Mal for Christmas Eve dinner,” Cobb says, which is kind of him, because Arthur often manages to forget that he's known Cobb and Mal since college, but Cobb doesn't.
“Maybe I'll take you up on that,” he says. And he means it, fervently means it, even orders himself right there to do it, because of course he knows he won't in the end. Cobb just smiles lopsidedly, like he knows this already, too.
“Take care of yourself, Arthur,” he says. “Don't work too hard.”
That's how he ends all their conversations, don't work too hard, and it makes Arthur want to laugh bitterly to himself because his brain always seems to interpret this as a challenge.
“Sure,” he says, and leaves.
There are nineteen more days left in this year and in nineteen more days, Arthur swears to himself, he's going to feel better.
He hasn't yet considered how he's going to make this happen.
He hates his work, but he hates his apartment even more, so he always ends up at his office and since he's there, he may as well work anyway. He wants to sleep but even when he has the time, he just ends up lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out where exactly his life became such a mess, like if he can just go back in time to fix it, he can make himself happier. Ridiculously, the only thing to make him feel at all better these days is Eames. And Arthur hates that Eames makes him feel better, and hating this makes him feel worse, so it's a constant loop he can't break out of.
The thing is that it's just so good to be around someone who doesn't expect anything of him. Someone who can make him surrender control, artfully guide him to the very physical limits of his self and then reel him back in shaking and insensible. Every Friday morning Arthur tells himself, never again, and every Thursday evening he wonders how he ever used to go an entire month without doing this because he's so desperate to have Eames' cock inside him again.
He hates his job, hates his life, hates Eames, hates himself, hates everything.
And he has another problem he's becoming increasingly conscious of.
Arthur is straight, really and truly. He's attracted to women. He likes having sex with women. He likes their curves, the soft pliability of their bodies. When he jerks off, it's to fantasies of women.
On the weekends he picks girls up at bars, takes them home, and all of that just derails. He just can't stay hard while he's fucking them. Even if he can, it takes him an age to get hard in the first place and even longer to get off.
He says he's sorry, he's just tired. The worst part about this is that, before, sex was the only thing that could make him sleep through the night.
He's going crazy.
And somehow, he doesn't figure it out right away, until he does, and then he really is crazy.
&
Arthur is fucking wasted.
In fact he's so wasted that when some guy -- one of the bar's regular patrons, the type of gay that could be called a bear -- tries to pick him up, Arthur laughs in his face and then seriously considers it.
Then a muscular arm is slipping around his shoulders, and a husky voice at his ear is saying, “He's taken.”
Arthur shoves him off as the other man leaves. “Took you long enough to show up.”
“I'm right on time,” Eames says, still too close to Arthur's ear, so that Arthur can hear him over the background noise of music and conversation. “How long have you been here? Long enough to get yourself hammered and nearly date raped, I see?”
“I don't want to go home with you tonight,” Arthur says loudly.
“Settle your tab, pet,” says Eames, like he hasn't heard a word. “I'm going to the loo, I'll be back in a minute and we can leave.”
“I don't want--” Arthur starts to repeat, but Eames is already gone.
Arthur finishes his drink and follows him. He stumbles his way into the bathroom just as Eames is zipping up. He shuts the door and it's instantly much quieter; the bathroom is empty except for them.
“I don't want to go home with you,” Arthur says again. “I never want it.”
“And yet, here you are.” Eames runs his hands under the tap and grabs a few paper towels. “You mustn't be so stubborn, Arthur. So you're a little gay. Who's going to judge you?”
“You've ruined me for women!” Arthur shouts at him. He's drunk and he's angry and Eames -- Eames fucking laughs at him. Bitter. He turns and looks Arthur in the eye.
“Arthur, you were never for women.”
Arthur throws a punch at him. He's too smashed, though, his fist goes wide of its mark and Eames grabs his arm and Arthur is collapsing into him, like shattering glass, sharp and frail, crumbling into his chest. Eames grabs onto him, and Arthur is begging:
“Fuck me, just fuck me, it's the only time, fuck, it's the only time I feel anything real, please--”
“Come on,” Eames says, trying to stand him upright, “let's get you home--”
“Fuck me,” Arthur pleads, “right here, please, I need this, I need this so bad, my life is shit and this is the only time it isn't, I need you,” and he's babbling, pathetic, and actually being honest for once. Eames gives him a little shake, as though to snap him out of it.
“Come on, we don't even have condoms--”
“I'm clean. I swear I'm clean,” Arthur says. “I get tested, I could show you--”
“Oh, fuck me,” Eames mutters, and Arthur thinks he's not getting it, but then Eames is pulling him, leading him into the nearest stall, slamming the door shut and locking it.
He's rough, as always, and already Arthur feels his pulse stirring. He yanks at his own pants, shoving them down, and Eames helps, breaking off only to unzip himself and pull his own cock free; and then his hands are at Arthur's ass, and he presses Arthur up hard against the wall and lifts him, and Arthur immediately locks his thighs around Eames' waist. Eames is prying his cheeks apart, running one dry thumb down the crack of Arthur's ass and over his hole, and Arthur squirms with a choked sound, arching, and making Eames' stomach muscles quiver with the effort of holding him up.
“This will hurt,” he says, and Arthur's confused, because it's not like Eames has ever cared or thought to warn him before--
But then Eames is spitting into his own palm a few times, wrapping his fist around his cock and slicking it roughly, and then the head of his cock is bumping up against Arthur's hole and Eames pushes it in quickly.
It does hurt. Arthur squirms again, he can't help it, trying to arch away from the insistent press of Eames entering him, and Eames is murmuring something into his neck, shh, shh, it'll get better, and Arthur didn't even realize he was making a sound but he is; harsh, sobbing whines.
He keeps trying to move away, but Eames has him trapped firmly against the wall, and all Arthur can do is take it until Eames is bottomed out and they're both gasping raggedly. Eames isn't wasting any time, though -- he holds Arthur up under the thighs and starts thrusting, and Arthur can hear himself still making that sound, because this hurts and spit is no substitute for lube and what the fuck was he thinking -- and all at once Eames shifts and finds his prostate and Arthur clenches painfully around him and then relaxes, sagging against the wall. So Eames does the same again, both gasping in relief now, and Arthur brings both hands up to grip the top of the stall and grinds himself back down on Eames' cock. That makes it hurt again, and his eyes are squeezed shut so tight he can feel tears forming in the corners, but he keeps doing it, wringing little noises out of Eames' throat that make him flush all over.
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” Eames is breathing under his jaw, scraping his teeth over Arthur's throat, and Arthur doesn't get it, doesn't understand. This is good, this is better than anything. His cock is trapped between them; he lets go of the wall to jerk himself off with one hand and it's just seconds before he hears that familiar roar of white noise in his ears and he comes, on his hand and his own stomach because his shirt's rucked up to his chest. He just goes limp, and Eames thrusts into him with a few last grunts and then screws in deep and holds there, and Arthur can actually feel him come, warm and wet spurts against the walls of his insides, making him feel marked and filthy and exhilarated.
Then, at last, Eames gives a shuddering gasp and slumps against Arthur, crushing him against the wall. They both take a few seconds to collect their breath before Eames carefully disentangles himself and sets Arthur down, his thighs shaking. He unlocks the door and stumbles out of the stall, leaving Arthur there.
Panting, Arthur struggles to try and pull his pants on. He only gets them to his knees before his quivering legs give out and he sinks to the floor. Eames reappears in the doorway, just looking at him, and Arthur glances down at himself -- mussed and dirty and wet, Eames' come sliding down the inside of his thigh. This is, quite possibly, the lowest point in a life full of low points.
Then Eames steps inside and kneels down in front of him. He reels a thick wad of toilet paper off the roll and starts wiping off Arthur's hand and stomach, in spite of Arthur's mumbled protests.
“I don't need ...”
“Hush,” says Eames. “I locked the door, give yourself a minute.” He cleans Arthur up, grabs another handful of toilet paper and says, “Turn around.”
Arthur obeys mutely, clumsily. His face burns when he feels Eames parting his cheeks, examining him and wiping gently at him with the tissue.
“I'm fine,” he says, turning and pushing Eames away, even though he isn't fine; he's still drunk and his body hurts and Eames has unexpectedly abandoned the script. He struggles upright and pulls his pants up, straightens out his shirt. “I'm fine.”
But he wobbles when he takes a step, and Eames is there.
“Come on,” he says firmly.
Arthur doesn't really remember the walk to Eames' place. It feels like he's fallen asleep standing up, Eames propping him up to guide him, but he has blurred, indistinct impressions of the cold on his face and the ache in his ass and the burn in all his muscles. Eames keeps murmuring things to him, like nearly there and mind the step and then somehow they're in Eames' apartment and Eames is laying him down on the bed on his front, and Arthur's never been so glad to see that stained mattress. He falls into a stupour as Eames disappears and runs the tap and comes back, is pulling off his shoes and unzipping his pants from behind; he doesn't think to struggle until Eames is pulling his pants and boxers down his thighs.
“No,” he says weakly into the pillow, because he's drunk but even he knows this is a bad idea. “I don't think ...”
“Would you shut up and just let me ...?” Eames murmurs back, frustrated, and Arthur feels the damp touch of a warm washcloth between his legs. He hugs the pillow to himself and buries his face in it, and somehow bears Eames' ministrations this way. Eames is silent while he cleans Arthur up.
When he seems satisfied, he sits back and says, “You didn't ask me if I'm clean.”
“Oh,” says Arthur, blearily.
“You're still not asking me.”
“Oh ... I mean ... are you?”
“Yes,” says Eames shortly. “But you didn't know that. I could have been HIV-positive. Do you make a habit of this?”
“No,” says Arthur. “I mean, that was the first time I've ever ... done that. Without a condom.”
“You're an idiot,” says Eames.
He tips Arthur's face to the side so he can see him, and Arthur stares up at him, too exhausted to make an argument of it. He thinks he could fall asleep here and be safe.
“You're a beautiful idiot,” Eames says softly, and leaning down, he presses a kiss to the corner of Arthur's mouth.
Eames' lips are slightly chapped and his stubble scrapes Arthur's chin gently. Brilliant fear crashes through Arthur like lightning. He is suddenly very conscious that Eames is a man and they've never done this before and he's not gay he's not gay he's not gay--
Wide awake all of a sudden, he jerks away. Eames looks startled. At himself?
“You -- fucking bastard,” Arthur spits out. Eames' features shut down at once.
“Sorry,” he says. “I don't know why I did that--”
“You fucking faggot,” Arthur manages, and the word comes out like a sob as he heaves himself out of bed, yanking his pants up. Eames laughs harshly.
“That's a bit rich, isn't it, coming from--”
“I'm not gay,” Arthur says. And then, the most insulting thing he can possibly think of: “I'm not like you.”
He leaves the apartment and Eames' expression stays with him, a closed-off, dark, bitter look, that is somehow more painful without any barbed rejoinders attached to it.
&
The high point of Arthur's entire month, possibly his year, is that on Christmas Eve, someone at his office orders Chinese take-out from his favourite restaurant for all the people who are working late. Arthur takes a whole forty-five minutes off from the presentation he's working on to eat with his fellow yuppie coworkers. All the people with families are already gone for the night.
He thinks, with a rueful pang, of the turkey dinner he's no doubt missing out on at Cobb's house. But he just doesn't have the energy. Doesn't even have the energy to go home. At the end of the day, when everyone else is gone and the remaining Chinese food is in the fridge, Arthur's on the phone with a client in Japan until three o'clock in the morning, and then he falls asleep at his desk for three hours afterward.
Merry fucking Christmas, he thinks resignedly, walking home at six AM.
It's been two weeks since he last saw Eames and he hasn't slept with anyone. There's no point trying with women, and the thought of men makes him a little queasy. Eames ... doesn't. But whenever Arthur thinks about him, he thinks about how horrible and awkward their last encounter was, and he's sure he's better off without Eames in his life.
At home, he makes coffee, lies on the couch with his laptop and channel-surfs. The Doctor Who Christmas special is on. He watches it, indulging himself. He watches the whole thing and by the end of the hour, disturbingly, he can't even remember what the episode was about.
Cobb calls him at some point and in the background Arthur can hear excited children and laughing adults.
“Arthur, hi, merry Christmas,” Cobb says, sounding a little out of breath. “Huh, I'm surprised you're not at the office.”
“Do you need me to be? I could go ...”
“No, no,” says Cobb loudly. “Listen, I was talking to Saito earlier this week and we noticed you hadn't taken any of your vacation days yet this year -- Phillipa, that's your brother's, put it down--”
“Is that a problem?” Arthur asks.
“No -- we just figured, you've been working so hard lately, and you either use your days or lose them, so why don't you take this week off?”
“What -- why, I don't--” Arthur's brain is reeling. He squeezes his eyes shut. “My presentation ...”
“Don't worry about it. Email what you've got to me, I'll handle the rest. Just take it easy this week, okay? You deserve a break. Consider it a Christmas holiday.”
Why are you doing this to me? he wants to cry. What did I do wrong?
He swallows around the knot in his throat and says, “Okay.” He adds, “Thanks,” as an afterthought.
“Sure. See you in the new year, Arthur.” And the line goes dead.
&
If Cobb hadn't given Arthur a Christmas break, things might have turned out very differently.
As it is, Arthur doesn't sleep for three days.
It doesn't sound like very much, but it is, especially considering he's been running on two or three hours of sleep every day before now. After three days without so much as a five-minute nap, all other needs pale in comparison. He wants sleep more than a starving man could want food. He feels like he's drunk all the time. He barely even leaves his bedroom -- what reason does he have to leave? -- and he doesn't eat, after awhile. His eyes are bloodshot and he feels perpetually on the verge of tears because he's just so fucking tired.
3:02, his clock flashes at him, and he thinks, just a half hour of sleep would suffice. Closes his eyes for what feels like an hour, opens them and the clock flashes 3:13. It's so frustrating he could scream.
And things could have turned out very differently, but Arthur doesn't sleep for three days, and by the end of the fourth, he just can't handle the thought of another long sleepless night, and there are only two things that could possibly help him. The first would be to walk to the nearest subway station and lie down on the tracks.
He opts to try the second one first.
Eames blinks when he opens his door. He scratches his cheek uncertainly.
“Arthur,” he says. He adds, “You look like shit.”
“I know it's not a Thursday,” Arthur says, shivering, “and we're not at the bar and I know I'm fucking this up and we're still fucked-up from last time, but can we just -- just forget about that for now, okay, because I really need you to fuck me -- it's just that I can't sleep and sex is the only thing that helps, it's the only thing, and they made me stop coming into work for the week and, I think I'm going to die if I don't sleep -- I just, please, can I--”
“Alright, alright,” Eames cuts him off, holding the door open wider. “Come on in, then.”
He looks rumpled, like he's been woken up from a nap, which makes Arthur resent him even more than he already does. But he can't be mad, because Eames is going to help him. He staggers inside gratefully.
“Just give me a minute,” Eames says, taking out his cellphone. “Have to make a call. Get comfy.”
Arthur toes his shoes off and collapses on the bed. He pillows his head on his arms and watches Eames pace to the far side of the apartment, which isn't far at all. He's wearing a faded old grey t-shirt and sweatpants, and it looks kind of good on him. He shuts his eyes and a few words from Eames' conversation drift over to him, “can't tonight” and what sounds like “come down with something”. It's a moment before Eames shuts the phone off, and then there's silence, and after a second Arthur feels a broad hand stroking down his back.
He stretches and makes a stifled sound into his arm. “Who was that?”
“My mum.” Eames straddles him, settling flush on Arthur's ass, and the heat of him is already making Arthur's dick twitch interestedly. He arches a little, pressing his ass just slightly against Eames' groin, and Eames makes a soft sound.
Arthur is forced to open his eyes when Eames rolls him over onto his back. He can't read Eames' expression.
“What?”
“You look like shit, Arthur,” Eames says again.
“I haven't slept in almost four days,” Arthur says, “and I couldn't really sleep before that -- I just need to get off, I just need one good night's sleep and then I'll be okay.”
Eames doesn't speak again. He starts stripping him, methodically, and Arthur obligingly raises his arms to get out of his shirt and lifts his hips off the bed so that Eames can pull down his pants and boxers. When he's entirely naked, Eames takes a second just to look at him. His loose sweats betray that he's already at least half-hard.
“What,” Arthur says again.
In answer, Eames wraps a hand around Arthur's cock and squeezes, gives it a few gentle tugs before leaning down and wrapping his lips over it. His tongue laps at the underside and Arthur gives a choked gasp, throwing an arm over his face.
“Eames ... what are you ...”
Eames takes more of him, and more, till he's almost taken Arthur to the root. He's still working his tongue expertly, and it feels amazing--
And then Eames rasps his stubbled cheek along the side of Arthur's thigh, and his erection is lost.
“Fuck,” Arthur grits out, keeping his arm over his face so that he won't have to see Eames'. “Sorry -- it's just that I'm so tired, and I--”
“Haven't done this with a man before?” Eames suggests. Arthur nods slowly, letting his arm fall away. Eames takes him by the hips, rolls him back onto his front before he has time to voice a protest and says, “Right then.”
“What are you going to--?”
Any argument dies in Arthur's throat as soon as Eames' thumbs dig into the back of his neck. All he can manage is a groan that sounds downright pornographic. Encouraged, Eames starts kneading his neck, working him gently with both hands.
“Christ, Arthur,” he grunts. “You've been carrying enough tension for three people.”
Arthur's voice is a whisper. “That feels ... so ...”
“Just relax. Keep your eyes closed. Hang on a sec.”
Eames' warmth and weight leave him. He returns after a minute, settling atop Arthur once more. Arthur dutifully keeps his eyes shut, so it's a surprise when Eames' hands are on his shoulders again and this time they're coated in oil. Arthur groans again, weakly. It's all he can manage for the next half hour as Eames massages him, working his way down from Arthur's neck and shoulder to his arms, tracing the palms of his hands lightly; down his lower back, digging his thumbs in either side of Arthur's spine; down to where Arthur's legs meet his torso, and further, to the backs of his knees (where they both discover that Arthur is quite ticklish) and then to his feet, which he spends several minutes on. Then he rolls Arthur over and straddles him again.
“Haven't fallen asleep on me, have you?”
Arthur laughs in self-deprecation and shakes his head. He's shivering again, because his circulation feels different -- all his extremities are chilled, and Eames's kneading seems to have redirected his bloodflow to his groin, because it occurs to him that he's fully hard. He's in no hurry to do anything about it, though. Eames gets back to work, making his way down to Arthur's groin, and Arthur makes a soft sound when Eames finally, finally wraps a hand around his cock.
“You're beautiful,” Eames murmurs softly, like he half doesn't intend for Arthur to hear. Arthur lets it go, though, because he feels good for the first time in weeks and he'll do anything for more of this.
At last, at long last, Eames leans down and takes Arthur in his mouth again. He teases and laves the head of Arthur's cock, and Arthur keeps his eyes shut and just digs his fingers into the bed. He just clings on, and in less than a minute he shudders and comes hard down Eames' throat. The relief he feels is instantaneous and immense, so overwhelming he finds when he manages to open his eyes that they're watering.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, his heavy eyelids already trying to fall shut again. “I should've ...”
Eames shakes his head and Arthur realizes he's already swallowed. A prickle of resentment fights its way up his throat -- this should feel wrong, all wrong, he's in bed with Eames who is gay -- but he's too blissed-out to really feel it.
He doesn't think to thank Eames, doesn't even think of reciprocating in some way -- he just falls into four whole hours of sweet, heavenly, uninterrupted sleep, and feels better than he has in months. And if Eames is watching him sleep and smoothing his hair back gently as he wakes, Arthur doesn't say anything about it. And he doesn't let himself think about what the morning will bring, when he's awake enough to be angry, because he already knows it won't be anything good.
part two
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~10,200 (this part)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Language, references to depression, rough sex.
Author's Note: Based on this prompt on the kinkmeme. I am too lazy to keep anon-ing xD
I hoped to finish this today, because on Boxing Day I'll be leaving for a week to go skiing, but that was a bust. Hopefully 10,000 words will tide you all over? ETA: Part two is here.
PS! MERRY CHRISTMAS! :D
The craving comes back on the first night Arthur doesn't stay at his office past nine o'clock in two weeks.
It always comes back when he's feeling like this: Especially burnt out, hating his job, hating his life, sick and tired and desperate. It's been about a month since the last time, because it takes about three weeks for it to build up to this point, and then another week before he decides that the brief but immense gratification will be worth the amount of self-loathing he'll feel afterward.
He leaves the office at eight, and goes to a gay bar.
It's a different one than last time. He doesn't want to be recognized or remembered. It's almost a hundred blocks away from his apartment and when the cab pulls up, he regards it with distaste. It's a small, trashy dive of a place.
He hands a few bills to the cab driver and gets out anyway.
The interior is no more impressive than the exterior. The place is dimly-lit and there's a general air of seediness hanging around. Arthur draws a few gazes from the patrons as he approaches the bar, and feels a flicker of resentment. They're mostly older men, and not the type that interests him. Soft, affectatious queers in their forties and fifties who watch him yearningly because the days are long gone when they could have hooked up with something as young and attractive as Arthur.
He takes a seat at the bar and orders a drink. He always needs at least one before he starts feeling less bothered by the atmosphere of the place, like its griminess is clinging to him, and the depravity of his mission.
He's on his second beer when a stranger drops onto the stool at his side and drawls, “You look like you're on the wrong side of the tracks, kitten.”
Arthur frowns and glances down at himself. Waistcoat but no jacket, loosened tie, collared shirt with the top two buttons undone. It's as dressed-down as he gets on a weeknight.
“Shall I give you directions back to the Upper West Side?” the man inquires mildly, and that makes Arthur scowl. It's a coincidence that his apartment is located there. “Or, on the off chance that you are indeed in the right place, can I buy you a drink?”
“Look,” Arthur says stiffly, staring fixedly at his beer. “I didn't come here for conversation. I didn't come to get into a relationship. All I want is stupid, meaningless sex. Unless you can help me with that, please leave me alone.”
The man seems taken aback by Arthur's bluntness.
“Well,” he says, after a pause. “I think I can do something for you, then.”
Arthur turns his head and takes the man in for the first time. Big, solid-framed; muscular arms; stubbled face. They don't really come more masculine than this. Arthur's vitriolic sense of self-preservation wages war with his repressed, starving id briefly.
“Fine.” He shrugs, slaps a couple bills down on the bar, and gets up. “Let's go. And my name isn't kitten. It's Arthur.”
“Eames.” The stranger smiles broadly, gets to his feet and slings an arm around Arthur's waist, which makes him bristle. “I have a place not far from here.”
&
Eames' place is a hovel. It doesn't even have rooms, and not in a chic studio apartment way. Everything's crammed together: kitchenette, toilet, bed. Takeaway boxes are piled in one corner and the bed is unmade.
“'Scuse the mess.” Eames flips on the lamp next to the bed. “I imagine it's not what you're used to.”
Arthur rolls his eyes and starts stripping off his clothes. Eames takes his lead and starts shrugging out of his own clothing.
“You've got a nice body for a pencil pusher,” he says appreciatively, surprised, looking Arthur over.
“We don't need to talk,” Arthur says, sitting on the edge of the bed so he can pull off his pants and shoes together. “Let's just fuck.”
“Alright then,” says Eames.
Once he's naked, Arthur flops back onto the bed and watches Eames strip off, revealing inked flesh and more muscles. It sends a shiver of -- something through Arthur's stomach. Trepidation. Fear. Want. He isn't sure. Probably all three. He rolls onto all fours before Eames starts unbuckling his pants, because he doesn't want to look at Eames' cock in case it makes this too real for him. He just wants it inside him.
He half-watches while Eames pulls open the bedside table drawer and fishes for a condom, then listens to him tear it open and roll it on. He hears the snap of a cap of lube and swallows, shuffling his knees further apart, eyes squeezed shut in anticipation.
It burns like fury when Eames pushes the head of his cock into him, stretching him before he's ready.
“Fuck!” Arthur snarls, hands screwing into the covers, bucking a little instinctively in a vain attempt to throw Eames off. “Asshole! You didn't even--”
He has to break off with a strangled sound when Eames shoves himself in deeper.
“No talking,” he mocks softly next to Arthur's ear, sounding amused at the quivering mess he's immediately reduced Arthur to.
He starts thrusting. Arthur, in turn, keeps his mouth shut, braces on his hands and knees, and takes it. It's hard -- Eames is huge, bigger than any of Arthur's partners thus far, almost too much for him to handle, especially without any preparation or warning. Part of him wants to say stop, but most of him doesn't because this is so exactly what he needs right now. He needs to be used and bruised and just fucked. The pace Eames sets is fast and rough, and his hands wrapped around either side of Arthur's waist clench with every thrust, leaving deep scores from his nails on Arthur's stomach.
And he loves this, he does, just letting go and being debased and filthy like this, but Eames is brutal -- both in girth and the force with which he fucks into Arthur -- and when Arthur thinks he can speak, he opens his mouth, dizzy, and says, “Do you think you can -- maybe--”
He's not sure what he intends to say, maybe slow down or take it easy, but just then Eames' teeth are fastened in the junction between his neck and shoulder, and he bites down hard. Immediately Arthur is making this feeble whining sound, and that makes Eames bite harder, which hurts worse; but when he lets go, the sudden release of pressure feels good. Eames' stubble scrapes over his shoulder then and Arthur shudders, feeling him nuzzle into the bruise roughly.
For some reason it's right then that he has this stupid thought -- I'm being fucked by some stranger I just met and he could seriously hurt me -- and simultaneously realizes, he is completely, blindingly hard. At once, he braces his weight on one arm and wraps his other hand around himself. He can't believe how good it feels. Head-to-toe, his whole body is coming alive; but nowhere more than where he and Eames are joined.
“Harder,” he hears himself rasp.
Eames snorts a laugh behind him and, in response, shoves down on Arthur right between the shoulderblades. His quavering arm buckles and he lands on his shoulder before Eames rights him, so that he's flat on his chest with his ass in the air. Frustrated, he moves to plant his hand in the mattress and prop himself up again, but Eames captures his wrist in one hand and squeezes hard. When Arthur stills -- snarling at the humiliating attitude, but compliant -- Eames brings both hands to his ass cheeks and grips tight enough to leave bruises, pushing them further apart so he can cram himself deeper.
Arthur feels like he's being split in half. He's never had sex like this before -- where his partner just takes him, forcing him into a complete surrender. And all he can do is spread his knees even more and rock helplessly back into Eames' thrusts, like a cockhungry slut begging for more, and jerk himself off in quick, unsteady movements. He tilts his face into the pillow and feels sogginess against his cheek where he's been panting like a dog.
He knows he's close when he hears himself groaning out random fricatives, mindlessly. Eames must know it, too, because all of a sudden he shifts angle, and takes his hand away from Arthur's ass to slap his hand off his cock. He takes Arthur in hand himself, and his grip is strong and sure.
Arthur shivers -- he's never let any of them touch his cock before -- but it seems absurdly natural here and besides, he doesn't have it in him to voice a protest anyway. The build-up in his gut is a delicious, fizzing heat. He can feel it now, he's so close--
Eames' grip tightens painfully and he pumps Arthur quickly a few more times, and that's it, Arthur's spilling himself all over Eames' hand and the sheets, muffling his gasps into the pillow so that he half suffocates himself. His release is so great he almost blacks out.
Eames is still pounding into him, and all Arthur can do is writhe senselessly and groan until Eames screws into him one last time and goes still. Arthur can feel the jerk and throb of heat through the condom inside him.
At last, Eames pulls out and moves aside, and Arthur's abused hole is finally allowed to clench and then relax. He stretches out flat on his stomach and catches his breath, his heart slowing from its frantic, stuttered pace. Eames hits the mattress at his side, equally soaked in sweat. Arthur steals a covert glance at him as he peels the condom off and ties it. There's a streak of blood on it.
Eames flicks it carelessly at the trash can. “Hope I wasn't too rough on you.”
Arthur shakes his head. He feels like he's fucking floating, all his limbs are so light and his mind so blissfully blank. For once, he actually feels good. He stretches again, willing himself not to fall asleep, even though he's exhausted.
By the time his heart has slowed to its normal resting pace, his good feelings are already evaporating away. He just let himself get fucked by this thuggish brute he picked up in a gay bar, and incredible sex aside, he just feels bruised and ashamed and a little nauseous. He's not sure the thirty-or-so seconds of immeasurable bliss were worth it. In fact, even taking the sex into account, there's nothing about this exchange that wasn't repugnant.
Arthur always leaves these situations feeling dirty and ashamed of himself, but something about this time just feels particular vile. He hates this scummy apartment and the stained bed and he hates how easily he gave over and just let Eames own him. He hates the marks on his wrist and his sides and his ass, little reminders to pain him through the rest of this week.
He gathers his shaky limbs and rolls off the bed to get dressed. Without looking at Eames, he says, “Thanks.”
“For what?” Eames asks amusedly. Arthur doesn't know what to say. Thanks for the best orgasm of my entire life?
He loathes himself. As soon as his clothes are on and he looks halfway presentable, he grabs his wallet, fishes out two fifties and throws them on the bed, because he doesn't know what else to do. Eames starts to straighten up a little.
“Hey, wait a minute--”
Arthur leaves the apartment and as soon as the door is closed, he gallops down the stairs before Eames can get dressed and follow him. That was the last time, he promises himself. For real this time.
&
Arthur is a lot of things.
Arthur is an investment banker. He is professional and efficient. He's a halfway decent cook. He's totally independent and has been since the age of eighteen. Maybe he's tired all the time because he works about ninety hours a week which is twice what normal people do, but he's rich and he's competent at his job. He's almost thirty, and already a success.
And there are some things Arthur is not.
For instance: Arthur is not gay.
He's not.
When he wakes up in the morning the first thing he feels is profound, abiding shame. He always does. Always feels fucking disgusted at himself. There's an ache in his ass -- because he had some man's cock rammed in there.
Fuck.
He crawls out of bed, slogs into the bathroom and winces at the vicious scratches on his sides and stomach, set amongst dark bruises. He's bruised everywhere, fuck -- he looks in the mirror and frowns, touching a hand to the bite mark on his neck. He really hopes his collar will cover it.
He'd showered last night, of course, but he does again, as if he can steam away the feeling of residual sweat (not his own) and the phantom smell of male musk and come. He wishes he could stand in a sterilizing autoclave and scald it all off.
He looks down bleakly and realizes he's hard, really hard. There are bruises on his dick for God's sake. He thinks about how Eames' hand had gripped him and has to close his eyes and think of something else, or nothing at all, and ends up reciting the Star Spangled Banner in his head twice -- the whole thing, not just the first stanza -- before his erection goes away.
Never again, he reminds himself.
Arthur knows of one sure-fire way to distract himself from any and all thoughts of being fucked by a man last night: To work and work until he runs himself into the fucking ground.
He downs a few caffeine pills, orders himself a venti-sized espresso with double shots from the Starbucks down the street, and goes to work.
&
Arthur is lonely.
He's an investment banker. He spent six years of his life and thousands of dollars working his ass off in school to get a job he doesn't even really like. He can cook, but he lives off of take-out when he bothers to eat at all, because people who cook generally have people to cook for, and Arthur does not. He's independent and has been since eighteen because he has no family to speak of, not unless you count a brother who moved to Brisbane and never calls. He's never had a committed relationship in his life, never had a steady girlfriend, never even come close to thinking about marriage because he's much too busy for that. He's wealthy, but he's fucking exhausted all the time, all the time, and he feels this perpetual sense of desperation. He's almost thirty years old, and he feels like he's sixty.
Arthur is lonely as fuck.
Only he doesn't know this, because among other things, Arthur is a misanthrope with few people skills to speak of.
So he crawls through life like a dying dog, amazing and competent at his job but always missing something, and he repeats to himself over and over, If I can just get through this month.
If I can just get through November, then I'll feel better.
And he never does and he keeps saying it anyway, until he gets so desperate and tired and frustrated that he does something crazy and self-destructive and risky.
He had sex with a man for the first time six months ago and hasn't been able to stop yet. It's the only thing that makes him feel better. Even if it's just for a few minutes. At least it's something. Even if he hates himself for it. At least he feels something.
Right?
&
All throughout work that day he finds his hand drifting to the bruise under his collar, fingertips pressing into it just hard enough to make it hurt. Then he remembers Eames' crooked teeth sinking into his neck, and forcibly tells himself to stop. But he's distracted all day long -- namely, by thoughts of Eames.
He doesn't understand, because nobody in the past has stuck with Arthur like this before. Usually he fucks and forgets as soon as he possibly can, flushing the memory from mind. But Eames stays with him. He rankles at Arthur like a bug bite on his brain. His memory makes Arthur burn with embarrassment and shift uncomfortably in his seat. He's never let anybody take him like that before. Everything about their exchange was humiliating, degrading...
Never mind the fact that he hasn't come like that since he was a teenager. If ever.
His mind is buzzing all day long and he does something unprecedented: he ends up leaving work early for the second day in a row.
It's Friday. Arthur doesn't like Fridays like other people do. Weekends only serve to remind him that he's chained to his work and has nothing to do outside of that. But the rest of New York is coming alive, celebrating another work week done -- one more week down, so many hundreds to go before retirement -- so Arthur goes to a club. He picks up the easiest girl he can find and takes her back to his place. He's determined to scrub Eames' memory off his body and out of his mind.
It takes him forever to get hard enough. The girl's patient, thankfully, and she takes it slow with him until his dick finally gets with the program and is standing at full attention. But when they fuck, he takes even longer to get off. It gets to the point where he thinks he's going to have to fake an orgasm, and isn't that embarrassing -- this is getting ridiculous at any rate, sex has never been so dissatisfying--
And then he closes his eyes, and he can feel Eames' fingertips clenched in his sides, and Eames' rough hand around his cock, and Eames' cock filling him up--
His climax is sudden and weak, startling him.
&
It's like that all week. Eames plagues him constantly. Arthur doesn't have sex again, but he does jerk off, determinedly. He thinks of breasts, his mouth on them. The slick heat of a woman around him. He does this for about thirty minutes, struggling to maintain his erection without thinking of Eames, and finally admits defeat.
He works and works. He ends up spending a night at the office when he accidentally falls asleep at his desk. He's so fucking tired he could cry and for the first time he has to beg himself, Just get through this week--
But he knows he won't feel better even if he does.
That's why, the next Thursday, he hails a cab after work and gives the driver the address to the same seedy little gay bar at the southern end of Manhattan. Because he can't feel any worse than this, it's not possible.
Still, part of him is a little relieved when he walks in and sees that Eames isn't there. He determinedly ignores the part that isn't relieved, and orders a beer, because he may as well.
“Kitten,” a husky voice drawls behind him just as he takes his first sip. “You came back.”
Arthur swallows wrong and coughs. Eames slides adroitly onto the stool at his side, looking just the same as before.
“I was afraid I'd scared you off.”
When Arthur has his throat under control and his eyes have stopped watering, he takes a deep breath, abhorring himself for what's about to come out of his mouth.
“I'll give you another hundred dollars to do the same thing as last week.”
Immediately Eames sneers. “Keep your sodding money,” he says. “I'm not a bloody prostitute.”
He turns away, and Arthur lets go of his breath. There, he thinks. He's not going to sleep with you, thank God. Now you can leave. Now you can move on.
But Eames is just saying something to the bartender. He turns back to Arthur and gets to his feet, placing a hand at the small of Arthur's back.
“Come on, then. My place again, yeah?”
There's a conflicting emotion in Arthur's chest as he resignedly follows Eames to the door. He isn't sure if it's a heaviness in his heart, or if he actually feels lighter than he has in years.
&
Once they're in the apartment he expects it to go the same, and starts unbuttoning his shirt. But almost immediately Eames is there, taking Arthur by the wrists, pulling his hands away and starting to undo the shirt himself. His fingers are deft and nimble and he strips Arthur in record time, Arthur barely keeping up fast enough to tug off his socks and shoes; and as soon as he's naked, Eames shoves him onto the bed. The mattress creaks under Arthur's weight and the sound triggers a memory from last week, the obscene creak of the mattress under his knees with every one of Eames' thrusts. Instantly, he's hard.
He waits for Eames to start stripping off, too, but instead, Eames just unzips and tugs his jeans down far enough to expose his cock. Arthur rolls aside swiftly, before he can get a good look at it, getting on all fours. He hears Eames rummage in the bedside table drawer and practically begs, his whole body pulsing, “Just fuck me.”
Eames lays a hand on Arthur's back, just above the base of his spine, and the coolness of his palm makes Arthur realize for the first time how flushed he is from head to toe. “Oh, pet,” says Eames.
He makes Arthur wait while he rolls the condom on and grabs the lube, till Arthur's practically shaking; and then, kneeling behind him and placing a hand between his shoulderblades, Eames pushes him down onto his chest.
“No,” Arthur argues, trying to push himself back up, feeling a hot wave of resentment return, “I don't want--”
“I like you like this,” says Eames, holding him there with both hands now. “That gorgeous little arsehole of yours on display for me--”
Arthur snarls and squirms. “Fuck you--”
“Oh no, Arthur,” says Eames, and his voice drops into something low and almost bitter, “fuck you--” and he punctuates this by shoving his cock inside Arthur, not stopping till he's buried to the hilt, even though Arthur just about wails.
“Fuck you,” he sobs breathlessly, and it seems to be all he's able to say for the next few minutes, face half-buried in the pillow. “Fuck you, God--”
He can't see, he can't breathe, he can't stop shoving himself back into each of Eames' thrusts, and it's just like the last time, that hurts-so-good sensation his body just can't reconcile with or make up its mind about; except the difference this time is that Eames is clothed, and Arthur is not. And Arthur hates him for this; hates Eames for making him hot like this, God -- it's so wrong, all of it, because this fucking thug he just met last week shouldn't seem attractive to him at all, and a man should not be the best sex of Arthur's entire life; but he can't control the way his body is lighting up for Eames any more than he could control the lukewarm way it had responded to that girl he'd picked up.
He's never been so hard, even before Eames reaches around and wraps a hand around his cock, which makes him lightheaded. Eames' other hand slots into the bruises he'd left on Arthur's side and he scrapes his nails along the lingering marks, and Arthur just groans noisily, the volume of his voice as beyond his control as everything else.
“Let go, Arthur, go on, you have no idea how perfect you are like this--”
All Arthur can do is spread his thighs till they hurt and choke, “Fuck you.”
Eames takes his hand away from Arthur's cock briefly to wrench Arthur's thighs even further apart, surely leaving more bruises, till Arthur whines in pain, and he reaches back to touch himself before Eames takes over again. Getting off has suddenly never seemed so important. The bed creaks and jolts violently under them, their skin slaps together and with the sounds Arthur is making coupled with Eames' hoarse groans, he's shocked none of Eames' neighbours are yelling at them to keep it down.
And that thought is extinguished almost immediately as Eames wraps his free arm around Arthur's hips, to help hold him up, and changes the angle of his thrusts, and Arthur sees stars. His whole body jolts, his limbs go weak, he's in fucking space, weightless, lightheaded, without oxygen; and Eames thrusts in again and again and again and Arthur's writhing, clawing the sheets, spilling out a blur of almost-unintelligible words.
“Stop stop fuck oh God too much Eames fuck fuck I can't please--”
Eames laughs at him, jerks him steadily and keeps fucking into him right there until it really is too much, and Arthur comes with a shout that might be part scream; he can't tell over the roaring in his ears.
His whole body quakes under the force of it. His cock throbs violently in Eames' hand, his muscles contract tight around Eames rhythmically, his vision blurs and goes white. And on, and on. It's like a tidal wave of sensation and for a second he's out-of-body, snipped clean away, connected to nothing, floating.
When he recovers his senses, blood fizzling in his ears, he's slumped in Eames' arms. Eames is soft inside him, kneeling with Arthur half in his lap, still clasping him around the waist, and breathing hard.
“Fuck, Arthur,” he says, disbelief and reverence colouring his tone.
Arthur squirms out of his lap until Eames slips out of him, and lies flat to catch his breath. Eames flops down at his side.
“Fuck,” he says again, still panting.
Arthur rolls onto his back, avoiding the wet spots, and stares up at the waterstains on the ceiling. His chest heaves. They catch their breath for a few minutes.
“Arthur,” says Eames, rolling on his side to look at him. “Seriously, that was -- were you there, just now? And you don't have anything to say?”
“I'm not gay,” says Arthur.
Eames is silent at his side for a moment. Then he snorts.
“You've let me fuck you six ways from Sunday twice now, I'd say that makes you at least--”
“I'm not gay,” Arthur repeats sharply. “I'm not bisexual. I'm straight. I just happen to--”
“Happen to enjoy getting buggered up the arse? Right, that makes sense, then.”
“Fuck off,” says Arthur, struggling to push himself upright and off the bed. His stomach muscles are killing him; he has to lever himself up with his arms. As he starts to gather up his clothes he says, “I just don't want you to misunderstand me.”
“What's there to misunderstand?” Eames sneers. “That I didn't just give you the most mind-blowing fuck of your entire life?”
“No,” Arthur snaps, tugging on his pants. “I don't want you to think I'd ever be interested in having a relationship with you. Because frankly, I find the thought fucking repulsive.”
“Sorry?” Eames rolls onto his back as well, stretching his arms above his head. He hasn't bothered to pull his pants up, unabashed about his nakedness. “Can't hear you, mate, you're too deep in the closet.”
“I'm not going to make a habit of this,” says Arthur. He yanks his shirt on. “Just so you understand.”
“I understand you're a repressed, cockhungry coward if that's what you mean.” Eames folds his arms under his head, eyes hooded and dark. “My door's always open, Arthur.”
Arthur storms out, which is no easy task, considering the wobble in his legs.
&
In the first week of December, Arthur receives a Christmas card in the mail from his brother. His brother who is four years younger than Arthur and already tied down with a wife and toddler, who moved to Australia after dropping out of community college and now runs a tattoo parlour, and personifies Arthur's idea of a failure. He takes out the photo tucked inside the card and regards his brother and sister-in-law and nephew he's never met, kneeling on a beach beside a sand castle and all three grinning.
His brother is a failure and sometimes Arthur is so fucking jealous of him it makes him sick.
He doesn't have a word for the resentment that fills him when he looks at the photo, so he puts it away someplace he won't have to see it.
When this year is over, he's going to feel better. As soon as December ends and the new year begins. He swears it to himself. For real, this time.
At present, he doesn't feel much of anything. He seems to blink one day and Fifth Avenue is decorated to the nines for Christmas, and when did that happen? He doesn't even remember Thanksgiving. He probably spent it at work.
So: Christmas. Every year it happens the same; Arthur finds himself a bunch of travel brochures to far-away places, and he spreads them out on his desk, and he goes through each one, front to back. Cruises and resorts, tropical islands. He makes promises to himself. He's going to take a week off at Christmas. He's going to take his bonus and he's going to go somewhere. Someplace nice. Someplace relaxing. Cancun. Cuba. The Bahamas.
His bonus goes in the bank. His week off doesn't even make it off the ground. He goes back to the office. And the spreadsheets, and the numbers, and.
Oh well. Fantasizing about it is almost as good, anyway.
&
“What d'you do for a living, Arthur?”
Arthur crams his hands deeper into his coat pockets, ducks his chin into his scarf. Eames' place is three minutes away from the bar. Arthur keeps telling him they don't need to talk. Eames likes to ignore him.
“Hmm, let me guess,” says Eames, evidently interpreting Arthur's silence as a challenge. “You wear three-piece suits to work, though you've usually dropped the jacket by the time you go out drinking, so it's something corporate, but it's not something you enjoy. Maybe a lawyer -- but you're not creative, you're analytical, you're all about facts, aren't you, so I bet it's numbers. You're straitlaced enough to be in finance. But your cellphone never goes off when you're out, so I don't imagine you're in stocks.”
“My Christmas bonus is more than your apartment's worth,” says Arthur, acerbic as always. “That's your only hint.”
“I think you're an investment banker,” says Eames.
Arthur huffs into his scarf, using his breath to warm his face. “Lucky guess.”
“Don't you want to know what I do?”
“No.”
Eames hands him a business card. Arthur takes it in spite of himself. It takes him several seconds to realize he's looking at his own card. Investment Banker is printed crisply under his own name.
“How did you--”
Eames hands over Arthur's wallet. Arthur flushes angrily as he snatches it back.
“So you're a thief.”
“A pickpocket,” says Eames modestly. “And sometimes a street magician. And I occasionally devote myself to somewhat shadier pursuits. But we needn't go into that.”
In spite of himself, Arthur laughs, rubbing a hand over his face tiredly. Eames looks at him sidelong.
“Something funny?”
“No, it's just -- God, I worked eighteen hours yesterday -- I'm so tired I could fucking drop and you, you're a fucking bum, you don't even have a real job -- just, never mind,” he says, because he doesn't remember why it was funny, or if it ever was. He's just tired, and borderline delirious because of it.
“How many hours did you spend sleeping last night?” Eames asks curiously, like he can read Arthur's mind. Arthur shakes his head irritably.
“I said never mind,” he says, because they're at the building now.
They stop talking for awhile after that. It's just rough curses spat at each other in the dark, same as always, the same violent clashing together that they've been doing for six weeks, till Arthur's whole body sings with pain and he can't move a muscle--
His eyes snap open at a sudden sound. Eames, taking a piss in the toilet that's next to the squashed kitchenette. He glances over at Arthur when the latter stirs.
“Didn't mean to wake you, sorry.”
“What -- when did I --” Arthur squints in the dark, and suddenly the words sink in. He fucking fell asleep. In Eames' apartment, in Eames' bed-- “Fuck, fuck,” he chants, twisting around in the sheets. “Fuck, where's your -- Eames, what's the fucking time!”
Eames finishes what he's doing, plucks something off the floor and throws it at Arthur before wandering to the sink. Arthur fumbles with it. A cellphone. It flashes the time brightly when he flips it open. 4:17.
“Fuck!” Arthur shouts, frustrated. He nearly falls out of bed, miscalculating his ability to move his lower body, on his way to locate his clothing. “Fuck, fuck, shit, why did you let me fall asleep, asshole!”
“You seemed so tired,” Eames shrugs. “Thought you could use the rest.”
“You piece of shit!” Arthur scrambles around, dressing as quickly as he possibly can in the dark. He's so angry. Fuck Eames, fuck him and his constant need to ruin Arthur's fucking life. “I have a meeting, I'm never getting back to sleep tonight, I, fuck, you useless fucking asshole, Eames--”
Eames crawls back into bed with a shuddering yawn and for one surreal second, Arthur wants to join him, crawl back under the covers where it's warm and go back to sleep and not have to think about the one hundred blocks between him and his own apartment, how cold it is outside or his meeting in the morning.
He tucks his scarf haphazardly into his coat and leaves the apartment in a hurry.
“See you next week,” Eames calls after him sleepily.
“Yeah right,” Arthur snarls before he slams the door. He says something to this effect every time.
So much for not making this a habit.
&
It's when Arthur breaks his own personal record of a hundred-hour work week by working a hundred and thirteen hours that he thinks something might be really wrong with him.
He's exhausted almost to the point of tears. Cobb calls him into his office for a talk and all Arthur can do is stare blearily at the pictures Cobb's got on his desk of his beautiful wife and two kids, and wonder why everyone else's life is allowed to be so much better than his.
“Got any plans for Christmas?” Cobb asks, just as Arthur's getting up.
“Oh ... no ... no,” Arthur answers vaguely. “Not really. No family, so ...” He shrugs feebly.
“You're welcome to join me and Mal for Christmas Eve dinner,” Cobb says, which is kind of him, because Arthur often manages to forget that he's known Cobb and Mal since college, but Cobb doesn't.
“Maybe I'll take you up on that,” he says. And he means it, fervently means it, even orders himself right there to do it, because of course he knows he won't in the end. Cobb just smiles lopsidedly, like he knows this already, too.
“Take care of yourself, Arthur,” he says. “Don't work too hard.”
That's how he ends all their conversations, don't work too hard, and it makes Arthur want to laugh bitterly to himself because his brain always seems to interpret this as a challenge.
“Sure,” he says, and leaves.
There are nineteen more days left in this year and in nineteen more days, Arthur swears to himself, he's going to feel better.
He hasn't yet considered how he's going to make this happen.
He hates his work, but he hates his apartment even more, so he always ends up at his office and since he's there, he may as well work anyway. He wants to sleep but even when he has the time, he just ends up lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out where exactly his life became such a mess, like if he can just go back in time to fix it, he can make himself happier. Ridiculously, the only thing to make him feel at all better these days is Eames. And Arthur hates that Eames makes him feel better, and hating this makes him feel worse, so it's a constant loop he can't break out of.
The thing is that it's just so good to be around someone who doesn't expect anything of him. Someone who can make him surrender control, artfully guide him to the very physical limits of his self and then reel him back in shaking and insensible. Every Friday morning Arthur tells himself, never again, and every Thursday evening he wonders how he ever used to go an entire month without doing this because he's so desperate to have Eames' cock inside him again.
He hates his job, hates his life, hates Eames, hates himself, hates everything.
And he has another problem he's becoming increasingly conscious of.
Arthur is straight, really and truly. He's attracted to women. He likes having sex with women. He likes their curves, the soft pliability of their bodies. When he jerks off, it's to fantasies of women.
On the weekends he picks girls up at bars, takes them home, and all of that just derails. He just can't stay hard while he's fucking them. Even if he can, it takes him an age to get hard in the first place and even longer to get off.
He says he's sorry, he's just tired. The worst part about this is that, before, sex was the only thing that could make him sleep through the night.
He's going crazy.
And somehow, he doesn't figure it out right away, until he does, and then he really is crazy.
&
Arthur is fucking wasted.
In fact he's so wasted that when some guy -- one of the bar's regular patrons, the type of gay that could be called a bear -- tries to pick him up, Arthur laughs in his face and then seriously considers it.
Then a muscular arm is slipping around his shoulders, and a husky voice at his ear is saying, “He's taken.”
Arthur shoves him off as the other man leaves. “Took you long enough to show up.”
“I'm right on time,” Eames says, still too close to Arthur's ear, so that Arthur can hear him over the background noise of music and conversation. “How long have you been here? Long enough to get yourself hammered and nearly date raped, I see?”
“I don't want to go home with you tonight,” Arthur says loudly.
“Settle your tab, pet,” says Eames, like he hasn't heard a word. “I'm going to the loo, I'll be back in a minute and we can leave.”
“I don't want--” Arthur starts to repeat, but Eames is already gone.
Arthur finishes his drink and follows him. He stumbles his way into the bathroom just as Eames is zipping up. He shuts the door and it's instantly much quieter; the bathroom is empty except for them.
“I don't want to go home with you,” Arthur says again. “I never want it.”
“And yet, here you are.” Eames runs his hands under the tap and grabs a few paper towels. “You mustn't be so stubborn, Arthur. So you're a little gay. Who's going to judge you?”
“You've ruined me for women!” Arthur shouts at him. He's drunk and he's angry and Eames -- Eames fucking laughs at him. Bitter. He turns and looks Arthur in the eye.
“Arthur, you were never for women.”
Arthur throws a punch at him. He's too smashed, though, his fist goes wide of its mark and Eames grabs his arm and Arthur is collapsing into him, like shattering glass, sharp and frail, crumbling into his chest. Eames grabs onto him, and Arthur is begging:
“Fuck me, just fuck me, it's the only time, fuck, it's the only time I feel anything real, please--”
“Come on,” Eames says, trying to stand him upright, “let's get you home--”
“Fuck me,” Arthur pleads, “right here, please, I need this, I need this so bad, my life is shit and this is the only time it isn't, I need you,” and he's babbling, pathetic, and actually being honest for once. Eames gives him a little shake, as though to snap him out of it.
“Come on, we don't even have condoms--”
“I'm clean. I swear I'm clean,” Arthur says. “I get tested, I could show you--”
“Oh, fuck me,” Eames mutters, and Arthur thinks he's not getting it, but then Eames is pulling him, leading him into the nearest stall, slamming the door shut and locking it.
He's rough, as always, and already Arthur feels his pulse stirring. He yanks at his own pants, shoving them down, and Eames helps, breaking off only to unzip himself and pull his own cock free; and then his hands are at Arthur's ass, and he presses Arthur up hard against the wall and lifts him, and Arthur immediately locks his thighs around Eames' waist. Eames is prying his cheeks apart, running one dry thumb down the crack of Arthur's ass and over his hole, and Arthur squirms with a choked sound, arching, and making Eames' stomach muscles quiver with the effort of holding him up.
“This will hurt,” he says, and Arthur's confused, because it's not like Eames has ever cared or thought to warn him before--
But then Eames is spitting into his own palm a few times, wrapping his fist around his cock and slicking it roughly, and then the head of his cock is bumping up against Arthur's hole and Eames pushes it in quickly.
It does hurt. Arthur squirms again, he can't help it, trying to arch away from the insistent press of Eames entering him, and Eames is murmuring something into his neck, shh, shh, it'll get better, and Arthur didn't even realize he was making a sound but he is; harsh, sobbing whines.
He keeps trying to move away, but Eames has him trapped firmly against the wall, and all Arthur can do is take it until Eames is bottomed out and they're both gasping raggedly. Eames isn't wasting any time, though -- he holds Arthur up under the thighs and starts thrusting, and Arthur can hear himself still making that sound, because this hurts and spit is no substitute for lube and what the fuck was he thinking -- and all at once Eames shifts and finds his prostate and Arthur clenches painfully around him and then relaxes, sagging against the wall. So Eames does the same again, both gasping in relief now, and Arthur brings both hands up to grip the top of the stall and grinds himself back down on Eames' cock. That makes it hurt again, and his eyes are squeezed shut so tight he can feel tears forming in the corners, but he keeps doing it, wringing little noises out of Eames' throat that make him flush all over.
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” Eames is breathing under his jaw, scraping his teeth over Arthur's throat, and Arthur doesn't get it, doesn't understand. This is good, this is better than anything. His cock is trapped between them; he lets go of the wall to jerk himself off with one hand and it's just seconds before he hears that familiar roar of white noise in his ears and he comes, on his hand and his own stomach because his shirt's rucked up to his chest. He just goes limp, and Eames thrusts into him with a few last grunts and then screws in deep and holds there, and Arthur can actually feel him come, warm and wet spurts against the walls of his insides, making him feel marked and filthy and exhilarated.
Then, at last, Eames gives a shuddering gasp and slumps against Arthur, crushing him against the wall. They both take a few seconds to collect their breath before Eames carefully disentangles himself and sets Arthur down, his thighs shaking. He unlocks the door and stumbles out of the stall, leaving Arthur there.
Panting, Arthur struggles to try and pull his pants on. He only gets them to his knees before his quivering legs give out and he sinks to the floor. Eames reappears in the doorway, just looking at him, and Arthur glances down at himself -- mussed and dirty and wet, Eames' come sliding down the inside of his thigh. This is, quite possibly, the lowest point in a life full of low points.
Then Eames steps inside and kneels down in front of him. He reels a thick wad of toilet paper off the roll and starts wiping off Arthur's hand and stomach, in spite of Arthur's mumbled protests.
“I don't need ...”
“Hush,” says Eames. “I locked the door, give yourself a minute.” He cleans Arthur up, grabs another handful of toilet paper and says, “Turn around.”
Arthur obeys mutely, clumsily. His face burns when he feels Eames parting his cheeks, examining him and wiping gently at him with the tissue.
“I'm fine,” he says, turning and pushing Eames away, even though he isn't fine; he's still drunk and his body hurts and Eames has unexpectedly abandoned the script. He struggles upright and pulls his pants up, straightens out his shirt. “I'm fine.”
But he wobbles when he takes a step, and Eames is there.
“Come on,” he says firmly.
Arthur doesn't really remember the walk to Eames' place. It feels like he's fallen asleep standing up, Eames propping him up to guide him, but he has blurred, indistinct impressions of the cold on his face and the ache in his ass and the burn in all his muscles. Eames keeps murmuring things to him, like nearly there and mind the step and then somehow they're in Eames' apartment and Eames is laying him down on the bed on his front, and Arthur's never been so glad to see that stained mattress. He falls into a stupour as Eames disappears and runs the tap and comes back, is pulling off his shoes and unzipping his pants from behind; he doesn't think to struggle until Eames is pulling his pants and boxers down his thighs.
“No,” he says weakly into the pillow, because he's drunk but even he knows this is a bad idea. “I don't think ...”
“Would you shut up and just let me ...?” Eames murmurs back, frustrated, and Arthur feels the damp touch of a warm washcloth between his legs. He hugs the pillow to himself and buries his face in it, and somehow bears Eames' ministrations this way. Eames is silent while he cleans Arthur up.
When he seems satisfied, he sits back and says, “You didn't ask me if I'm clean.”
“Oh,” says Arthur, blearily.
“You're still not asking me.”
“Oh ... I mean ... are you?”
“Yes,” says Eames shortly. “But you didn't know that. I could have been HIV-positive. Do you make a habit of this?”
“No,” says Arthur. “I mean, that was the first time I've ever ... done that. Without a condom.”
“You're an idiot,” says Eames.
He tips Arthur's face to the side so he can see him, and Arthur stares up at him, too exhausted to make an argument of it. He thinks he could fall asleep here and be safe.
“You're a beautiful idiot,” Eames says softly, and leaning down, he presses a kiss to the corner of Arthur's mouth.
Eames' lips are slightly chapped and his stubble scrapes Arthur's chin gently. Brilliant fear crashes through Arthur like lightning. He is suddenly very conscious that Eames is a man and they've never done this before and he's not gay he's not gay he's not gay--
Wide awake all of a sudden, he jerks away. Eames looks startled. At himself?
“You -- fucking bastard,” Arthur spits out. Eames' features shut down at once.
“Sorry,” he says. “I don't know why I did that--”
“You fucking faggot,” Arthur manages, and the word comes out like a sob as he heaves himself out of bed, yanking his pants up. Eames laughs harshly.
“That's a bit rich, isn't it, coming from--”
“I'm not gay,” Arthur says. And then, the most insulting thing he can possibly think of: “I'm not like you.”
He leaves the apartment and Eames' expression stays with him, a closed-off, dark, bitter look, that is somehow more painful without any barbed rejoinders attached to it.
&
The high point of Arthur's entire month, possibly his year, is that on Christmas Eve, someone at his office orders Chinese take-out from his favourite restaurant for all the people who are working late. Arthur takes a whole forty-five minutes off from the presentation he's working on to eat with his fellow yuppie coworkers. All the people with families are already gone for the night.
He thinks, with a rueful pang, of the turkey dinner he's no doubt missing out on at Cobb's house. But he just doesn't have the energy. Doesn't even have the energy to go home. At the end of the day, when everyone else is gone and the remaining Chinese food is in the fridge, Arthur's on the phone with a client in Japan until three o'clock in the morning, and then he falls asleep at his desk for three hours afterward.
Merry fucking Christmas, he thinks resignedly, walking home at six AM.
It's been two weeks since he last saw Eames and he hasn't slept with anyone. There's no point trying with women, and the thought of men makes him a little queasy. Eames ... doesn't. But whenever Arthur thinks about him, he thinks about how horrible and awkward their last encounter was, and he's sure he's better off without Eames in his life.
At home, he makes coffee, lies on the couch with his laptop and channel-surfs. The Doctor Who Christmas special is on. He watches it, indulging himself. He watches the whole thing and by the end of the hour, disturbingly, he can't even remember what the episode was about.
Cobb calls him at some point and in the background Arthur can hear excited children and laughing adults.
“Arthur, hi, merry Christmas,” Cobb says, sounding a little out of breath. “Huh, I'm surprised you're not at the office.”
“Do you need me to be? I could go ...”
“No, no,” says Cobb loudly. “Listen, I was talking to Saito earlier this week and we noticed you hadn't taken any of your vacation days yet this year -- Phillipa, that's your brother's, put it down--”
“Is that a problem?” Arthur asks.
“No -- we just figured, you've been working so hard lately, and you either use your days or lose them, so why don't you take this week off?”
“What -- why, I don't--” Arthur's brain is reeling. He squeezes his eyes shut. “My presentation ...”
“Don't worry about it. Email what you've got to me, I'll handle the rest. Just take it easy this week, okay? You deserve a break. Consider it a Christmas holiday.”
Why are you doing this to me? he wants to cry. What did I do wrong?
He swallows around the knot in his throat and says, “Okay.” He adds, “Thanks,” as an afterthought.
“Sure. See you in the new year, Arthur.” And the line goes dead.
&
If Cobb hadn't given Arthur a Christmas break, things might have turned out very differently.
As it is, Arthur doesn't sleep for three days.
It doesn't sound like very much, but it is, especially considering he's been running on two or three hours of sleep every day before now. After three days without so much as a five-minute nap, all other needs pale in comparison. He wants sleep more than a starving man could want food. He feels like he's drunk all the time. He barely even leaves his bedroom -- what reason does he have to leave? -- and he doesn't eat, after awhile. His eyes are bloodshot and he feels perpetually on the verge of tears because he's just so fucking tired.
3:02, his clock flashes at him, and he thinks, just a half hour of sleep would suffice. Closes his eyes for what feels like an hour, opens them and the clock flashes 3:13. It's so frustrating he could scream.
And things could have turned out very differently, but Arthur doesn't sleep for three days, and by the end of the fourth, he just can't handle the thought of another long sleepless night, and there are only two things that could possibly help him. The first would be to walk to the nearest subway station and lie down on the tracks.
He opts to try the second one first.
Eames blinks when he opens his door. He scratches his cheek uncertainly.
“Arthur,” he says. He adds, “You look like shit.”
“I know it's not a Thursday,” Arthur says, shivering, “and we're not at the bar and I know I'm fucking this up and we're still fucked-up from last time, but can we just -- just forget about that for now, okay, because I really need you to fuck me -- it's just that I can't sleep and sex is the only thing that helps, it's the only thing, and they made me stop coming into work for the week and, I think I'm going to die if I don't sleep -- I just, please, can I--”
“Alright, alright,” Eames cuts him off, holding the door open wider. “Come on in, then.”
He looks rumpled, like he's been woken up from a nap, which makes Arthur resent him even more than he already does. But he can't be mad, because Eames is going to help him. He staggers inside gratefully.
“Just give me a minute,” Eames says, taking out his cellphone. “Have to make a call. Get comfy.”
Arthur toes his shoes off and collapses on the bed. He pillows his head on his arms and watches Eames pace to the far side of the apartment, which isn't far at all. He's wearing a faded old grey t-shirt and sweatpants, and it looks kind of good on him. He shuts his eyes and a few words from Eames' conversation drift over to him, “can't tonight” and what sounds like “come down with something”. It's a moment before Eames shuts the phone off, and then there's silence, and after a second Arthur feels a broad hand stroking down his back.
He stretches and makes a stifled sound into his arm. “Who was that?”
“My mum.” Eames straddles him, settling flush on Arthur's ass, and the heat of him is already making Arthur's dick twitch interestedly. He arches a little, pressing his ass just slightly against Eames' groin, and Eames makes a soft sound.
Arthur is forced to open his eyes when Eames rolls him over onto his back. He can't read Eames' expression.
“What?”
“You look like shit, Arthur,” Eames says again.
“I haven't slept in almost four days,” Arthur says, “and I couldn't really sleep before that -- I just need to get off, I just need one good night's sleep and then I'll be okay.”
Eames doesn't speak again. He starts stripping him, methodically, and Arthur obligingly raises his arms to get out of his shirt and lifts his hips off the bed so that Eames can pull down his pants and boxers. When he's entirely naked, Eames takes a second just to look at him. His loose sweats betray that he's already at least half-hard.
“What,” Arthur says again.
In answer, Eames wraps a hand around Arthur's cock and squeezes, gives it a few gentle tugs before leaning down and wrapping his lips over it. His tongue laps at the underside and Arthur gives a choked gasp, throwing an arm over his face.
“Eames ... what are you ...”
Eames takes more of him, and more, till he's almost taken Arthur to the root. He's still working his tongue expertly, and it feels amazing--
And then Eames rasps his stubbled cheek along the side of Arthur's thigh, and his erection is lost.
“Fuck,” Arthur grits out, keeping his arm over his face so that he won't have to see Eames'. “Sorry -- it's just that I'm so tired, and I--”
“Haven't done this with a man before?” Eames suggests. Arthur nods slowly, letting his arm fall away. Eames takes him by the hips, rolls him back onto his front before he has time to voice a protest and says, “Right then.”
“What are you going to--?”
Any argument dies in Arthur's throat as soon as Eames' thumbs dig into the back of his neck. All he can manage is a groan that sounds downright pornographic. Encouraged, Eames starts kneading his neck, working him gently with both hands.
“Christ, Arthur,” he grunts. “You've been carrying enough tension for three people.”
Arthur's voice is a whisper. “That feels ... so ...”
“Just relax. Keep your eyes closed. Hang on a sec.”
Eames' warmth and weight leave him. He returns after a minute, settling atop Arthur once more. Arthur dutifully keeps his eyes shut, so it's a surprise when Eames' hands are on his shoulders again and this time they're coated in oil. Arthur groans again, weakly. It's all he can manage for the next half hour as Eames massages him, working his way down from Arthur's neck and shoulder to his arms, tracing the palms of his hands lightly; down his lower back, digging his thumbs in either side of Arthur's spine; down to where Arthur's legs meet his torso, and further, to the backs of his knees (where they both discover that Arthur is quite ticklish) and then to his feet, which he spends several minutes on. Then he rolls Arthur over and straddles him again.
“Haven't fallen asleep on me, have you?”
Arthur laughs in self-deprecation and shakes his head. He's shivering again, because his circulation feels different -- all his extremities are chilled, and Eames's kneading seems to have redirected his bloodflow to his groin, because it occurs to him that he's fully hard. He's in no hurry to do anything about it, though. Eames gets back to work, making his way down to Arthur's groin, and Arthur makes a soft sound when Eames finally, finally wraps a hand around his cock.
“You're beautiful,” Eames murmurs softly, like he half doesn't intend for Arthur to hear. Arthur lets it go, though, because he feels good for the first time in weeks and he'll do anything for more of this.
At last, at long last, Eames leans down and takes Arthur in his mouth again. He teases and laves the head of Arthur's cock, and Arthur keeps his eyes shut and just digs his fingers into the bed. He just clings on, and in less than a minute he shudders and comes hard down Eames' throat. The relief he feels is instantaneous and immense, so overwhelming he finds when he manages to open his eyes that they're watering.
“Sorry,” he mumbles, his heavy eyelids already trying to fall shut again. “I should've ...”
Eames shakes his head and Arthur realizes he's already swallowed. A prickle of resentment fights its way up his throat -- this should feel wrong, all wrong, he's in bed with Eames who is gay -- but he's too blissed-out to really feel it.
He doesn't think to thank Eames, doesn't even think of reciprocating in some way -- he just falls into four whole hours of sweet, heavenly, uninterrupted sleep, and feels better than he has in months. And if Eames is watching him sleep and smoothing his hair back gently as he wakes, Arthur doesn't say anything about it. And he doesn't let himself think about what the morning will bring, when he's awake enough to be angry, because he already knows it won't be anything good.
part two