Fic: Unravel - Chapters 1 - 2
Unravel
Chapter 1: The Conservatory
Master post of all chapters here.
Chapter 1: The Conservatory
The dream is set inside an opulent mansion. There are two storeys and numerous rooms, all complete down to the library bookshelves filled with novels in multiple languages. There's nothing old world about the elegance of the setting though-this is no faux-European manor, but rather a modern American take on luxury, more in the vein of Frank Lloyd Wright than an English castle.
They're seated in two armchairs in front of a fireplace, highball glasses in their hands while well-dressed party guests mingle and chatter around them. Arthur's wearing a pinstriped suit, jacket unbuttoned and no tie, while Eames is wearing his outfit from dinner (vertical striped coral button-down and chinos).
"The idea is to create a series of fully immersive, pre-programmed dream scenarios that clients can plug into," Arthur says, smiling politely at the butler who refreshes his glass. "We create a setting, a storyline, and allow clients to play through the story."
"So it's a game?" Eames says as several projections in a far corner of the room burst into laughter. "And clients pay to play within the dream?"
"Exactly. Depending on the dream scenario, a client could even engage in the dream with a partner or a group of their friends." Across the room, a piercing scream silences the crowd, and all the projections turn towards the screamer. "Shall we?" Arthur asks, inclining his head.
They stand and make their way through the crowd of murmuring projections to where a dead body lies, blood pooling around the head. "It's Mr. Boddy," one of the projections whispers. "Someone murdered Mr. Boddy!"
"It has to be someone in the building," another projection chimes in. "I spoke with him only twenty minutes ago!"
"The police have been called," the butler says. "Everyone must wait for them to arrive. No one is to leave."
As Eames and Arthur walk away from the hubbub, Eames says, "So the client gets to solve a murder mystery?"
"Exactly." Arthur beams. "There are other storylines that I was thinking about exploring, but this is one I think most people will be familiar with and understand. Plus, there's the flexibility of creating different themes. We can set it in Victorian England and play at being Sherlock Holmes or set it in Hollywood where everyone at the party is a celebrity-whatever clients might be interested in."
"Fascinating," Eames says as the lights flicker ominously above them. "You're trying to make this into an ongoing business, then. Set up shop?"
"If I can, yeah," Arthur says. "Dream entertainment isn't illegal in the US and I figured maybe-this might be a way to make some steady income without having to fly all over the world as much."
"Interested in settling down, Arthur?" Eames has known Arthur for close to five years now, observed his transition from trigger-happy ex-Marine desperate to prove himself to someone more relaxed and yet precise, confident in his own skin at last. Throughout the years, the one constant Eames had always known to be true of Arthur was his wanderlust and general restlessness-but perhaps this, too, is changing.
"Thought it might be a nice change of pace, staying put for a while," Arthur says. "I don't know if it's for good, but I'd like to stick around an apartment long enough to unpack my moving boxes."
"Poor Mr. Boddy," Eames says with a mournful glance at the projection on the ground. "Sacrificed at the altar of your ambition."
"I'm pretty ruthless when it comes to getting what I want," Arthur agrees as he bumps his shoulder against Eames' companionably. "I could do the architecture, the design, the basic storyline. I have a chemist lined up-Rosalina, I don't know if you've met her, she mostly does local work in the US. Anyway, she's been developing some custom cocktails that could help keep the dream more stable and improve our control over projections."
"And what will my role be?"
"You can stand around my office looking pretty," Arthur deadpans. "Maybe feed me grapes and dab my sweat away after a long day of work."
"Then you're offering me a position which is purely ornamental, is what you're saying." Eames hooks a finger into Arthur's waistband to pull him closer. "How much is the pay again?"
"Is the prospect of feeding me grapes and giving me sponge-baths not payment enough?" Arthur asks, curling his arms around Eames' waist. "You drive hard bargains, Mr. Eames."
"Well, I certainly wouldn't want to be taken advantage of by a smooth-talking American," Eames murmurs as he leans in to give Arthur's mouth a little nip. In the background, a few of the projections leer and catcall. "I expect to be properly compensated for any services rendered."
"I suppose I could give you a percentage of the profits after we get our first paying customers." Arthur kisses Eames on the tip of his nose and then pulls back a few inches. "If we upgrade your role to something that isn't entirely decorative."
"You're going to put me to work in a coal-mine, aren't you?" Eames says. "This is all some elaborate trap."
"While I think you'd make an excellent miner, I was hoping we could play to some of your more unique talents," Arthur says. "Your job would be working with the projections, the characters in the story. No one can control projections in dreamshare like you can, and you could bring them to life for the clients. I was also thinking you should forge the murderer in the dream."
"So it was me dressed as Ms. Scarlett, in the Billiard Room, with the candlestick," Eames concludes.
"Or you as Professor Plum in the library with the rope," Arthur says. "We can develop multiple storylines, even offer replayability with a different set of circumstances and murderers to clients who might be interested. It's not infinite possibility, but it's a good number."
"With a set number of variables to control." Eames glances round the well-appointed room and nods. "Fascinating."
"Yeah?" Arthur smiles tentatively. "Really? You're not just saying that for the sake of a handjob?"
"While I'll never say no to a handjob, I will say no to an idea I don't care for," Eames says. "This is interesting. There are dream dens and dream brothels, but less seedy entertainment in a more structured environment for a limited time period-I can think of several clients I've worked with who might be interested in this."
Arthur smiles so broadly dimples appear in both his cheeks. "I'll see you State-side, then."
* * * * *
The office space Arthur rents is clean, in a generic high-rise building in an acceptable but decidedly less than trendy neighborhood of San Francisco. It's located on the fourth floor and contains all the usual essentials: a small waiting area, several offices of varying sizes, a break room, and a single, unisex bathroom. Every room has a door with a lock-not enough to keep anyone particularly determined at bay, but enough to buy a few seconds to escape if need be.
There's already some furniture set up when Eames arrives: lamps, desks, chairs-all ergonomic, but more spare than luxurious.
The one notable indulgence, however, is the set of blue chaise lounges set up in the largest office. There's a small end table between the chairs where the PASIV is clearly meant to go, and the chairs resemble neither mass market retail styles nor high end designer styles. They seem nearly anachronistic in the modern, minimalist setting they're currently occupying.
"No food or drinks in this room," Arthur says. "I had those custom-made and upholstered."
"Not even water?" Eames asks, not so much for the answer as for Arthur's reaction. No matter how much time has passes, he apparently will never tire of testing Arthur's boundaries.
"No exceptions," Arthur says, and adds, "And no sex in here, either during or after hours."
"So the loo during lunch, then?" Eames asks as a hand drifts down the curve of Arthur's bottom.
"While we're here, we should really focus on work, Eames." Arthur's voice is as somber as it ever is, but he makes no move to remove Eames' wandering hand.
Given that Eames has worked in environs ranging from huts in the desert to abandoned underground nuclear bunkers, he certainly hasn't any complaints. He's done office work before, but this will mark the first time he'll be doing it without any ulterior motive. The first time he'll be doing it as himself.
Chapter 2: The Ballroom
"I wasn't sure what you liked, so I brought one of each," Eames says as he sets a box of doughnuts down on Arthur's desk. He's worked in dozens of offices-he knows the script for winning over the hearts of cubicle-bound coworkers and managers.
"Oh." Arthur's delight is radiant, startling. "I like the ones with the jelly filling."
"Ah." There's an expectant pause from Arthur and Eames adds, "I like the ones with the icing and sprinkles."
"They do look good," Arthur replies, face already covered in sugar. "And thanks, by the way."
"You're welcome." And then, to restrain himself from the impulse to kiss Arthur's powdery cheeks, Eames says, "Do you remember the first thing you ever said to me?"
"I don't," Arthur says. "But it was probably something dickish."
"You said, and I quote, 'get the fuck out of my dream, asshole.'"
Arthur winces, then chuckles. "Sorry about that. I had a lot of pent-up aggression that manifested in general fuckheadery."
"At least you acknowledge it openly now," Eames says, taking a bite out of his own doughnut.
"And you were just a ray of sunshine back then, too, huh?" Arthur softens the words with a smile. "Always skulking around, brooding in the corners-"
"I didn't-" Eames stops. "I did not skulk. I brooded in the full light of day."
Arthur chuckles. "What were you always so somber about anyway? I don't think I saw you smile once in the first two years we knew each other."
"Well, you did introduce yourself by shooting me in the neck and telling me to fuck off."
"That was a tranquilizer dart and, to be fair, you were there to try to steal my mark's secrets."
"A mistake I learned never to repeat," Eames says, rubbing his neck where he can still remember the dart sinking in.
The truth is, when they first met Eames had been coming off a job playing a violent ex-convict, complete with hideous prison tattoos and a hair trigger for hostility. Working with a man who'd shot him required a radical shift in personality and reasoning in a very short period of time. When emerging from deep cover as an extreme persona, sometimes there is… leakage.
"Well, hey. We've both grown, and here we are." Arthur's hand skims across the desk surface to rest near Eames' leg, pinky barely touching in a near-violation of their no-PDA-in-the-office rule.
"Yes," Eames says, staring down at his half-eaten doughnut. "Here we are."
* * * * *
There's a knock on Eames' office door. He looks away from the glare of his computer screen, abruptly and uncomfortably aware of the crick in his neck, the tension where he's been hunching his shoulders over the keyboard for the better half of the day. He'd forgotten quite how glamorous deskwork could be. "Come in," Eames calls out.
"Hey." Arthur opens the door a crack and pokes his head in. "This a good time? I could come back later."
Eames glances at the numbers at the lower half of his screen; he's been drafting this bloody letter for the better half of two hours. "No, this is fine. I could use the break."
Arthur crosses the room to stand in front of Eames' desk, holding out a box of paperclips. "These are for you. I know you were looking for some earlier."
Eames blinks, and takes them. Normally, he's a master of social nuance, able to divine meaning from the tiniest social interactions and seeming trivialities. But there's something about Arthur that always leaves him flat-footed, unable to do anything but gape. It's abominable, really. "Thank you."
"No problem." Arthur's arms drop, fingertips brushing lightly across the surface of Eames' desk. "I was wondering if you were in the mood for some greasy Chinese takeout tonight. I found a place that uses a shit ton of MSG and delivers."
Eames leans back in his chair, tension in his back easing already. "Not interested in the real thing, then?"
"We can do authentic Cantonese cuisine another night," Arthur says. "Today, I've got a craving for the saltiest, most Americanized General Tso's chicken you can find in the state."
"You've won me over with your mouthwatering descriptors," Eames says, and resists the impulse to catch Arthur's hand in his and kiss it. They'd agreed early on to keep their interactions strictly professional while in the office, a rule Eames has been finding harder to adhere to, as of late.
The smile on Arthur's face is dazzling, but slips as he deliberates over his next words. "I was also wondering if I could ask-for a favor."
"If it's a kidney, I'm afraid I only have one left and I'm partial to the idea of keeping it."
Arthur smiles, but shakes his head, eyes stubbornly serious. "Remember I told you last week that I was getting my apartment painted? It's done now but the smell is-well, it's been driving me crazy. I've been trying to air the place out, but since it's been so damp lately…"
Eames raises his eyebrows, waiting for Arthur to reach his actual request.
"I was wondering if I could stay with you for a night or two, just until the paint settles and the smell fades," Arthur says, words hurried. "I know it's a lot, since we work together and eat dinner together and-well. I can always get a hotel room, so if you think it might be an overload, I'd understand."
"Are you sure you wouldn't rather a piece of my kidney?" Eames jokes, lamely, and is rewarded with a strained smile from Arthur. "I mean-yes. You should stay over. There's no need for a hotel room when I have a perfectly serviceable flat."
"You're sure?" Arthur asks, seeming hopeful. "I know you like your space. I don't want to intrude."
Eames wonders when Arthur started knowing him well enough to guess at his objections, much less overcome them. "As long as you're not expecting the height of luxury for the duration of your stay, I think I'll manage."
"You mean you're not going to cater to my champagne taste?" Arthur inquires. "No caviar after our Chinese takeout feast?"
"I may have some stale biscuits and a bottle of vinegar that used to be red wine," Eames replies. "You are welcome to both."
"Appetizing," Arthur says dryly, but seems chuffed anyway.
* * * * *
They leave work together early, Arthur swinging by Eames' office with an already packed overnight bag (naturally). He follows Eames to his leased sedan.
"I guess I get to finally see your inner sanctum," Arthur says as he puts a warm hand on Eames' right knee.
"I didn't do any of the decorating," Eames says. "The apartment came furnished. Nothing there is mine except for the clothing and the linens."
"What colors are the linens?"
"White."
"Well." Arthur pauses. "Clutter is overrated anyway."
So are permanent homes, Eames thinks, but doesn't say so because Arthur's hand is creeping up the inside of Eames' thigh and he doesn't want to dissuade it in any way.
They make it to a dark corner of the parking deck attached to Eames' apartment complex without any accidents, Arthur allowing Eames to shimmy out of his trousers halfway before bending over to take his dick in his mouth.
After a lovely blowjob and reciprocating handjob, Eames leads Arthur to his flat, waiting for comment or judgment. Neither seem to be forthcoming, however. Arthur simply drops his bag in the bedroom and asks, "You ready for dinner?"
They place an order, sipping glasses of the Malbec Arthur had the foresight to pack (of course) and chat casually about the day while waiting for the food. One thing Eames hadn't expected from Arthur was the amount of rather straightforward talking they'd do; Arthur, who'd been, in the past, reserved to the point of being laconic, now seemingly enjoys conversing with Eames as much as he enjoys shagging him.
Is this what it's like? Eames wonders as Arthur pays for the delivery and unpacks a vast fleet of paper cartons. Is this why people bother with something besides sex?
"They only gave us one pair of chopsticks," Arthur says, frowning as he peers into the bottom of the plastic bag. "You want it?"
"I have forks," Eames replies, opening the silverware drawer.
"I'm okay with the chopsticks," Arthur says. "You sure you don't want them?"
"Positive," Eames replies as he takes a seat at the kitchen table. He's eaten dinner with Arthur hundreds of times before, but this is the first in his home-temporary though it may be-and it feels odd. Not entirely unpleasant, but not quite comfortable.
The flow of conversation continues through their oil-soaked dinner, drifting from work topics to philosophy to fashion. Arthur's in the midst of experimenting with various tie widths after reading an article in GQ about it, and Eames is studying the pages of Vanity Fair for Ms. Scarlett's dream wardrobe. They agree that Emerald is an excellent pick for Pantone color of the year.
After devouring most of the admittedly delicious chicken, Arthur reaches across the wasteland of empty containers for a fortune cookie. He breaks it open and huffs a small laugh. "Two secrets to a happy marriage: a sense of humor and a short memory."
There's something in Arthur's voice that causes Eames to look up from his own cookie ('If you wish to know the mind of a man, listen to his words.') "You've been married before?"
"Yeah," Arthur says, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly. "Married once, engaged twice."
"Ah." Eames isn't entirely sure what else to say in response to that. He's been involved in 'relationships' of sorts for long cons, all of which involved some sort of secret agenda (information, influence, etc).
"The first time was on the playground underneath the slide," Arthur says. "Suzie Chen proposed to me with a blue rubber band. Blue's my favorite color, so I said yes. It all ended in tragedy when I saw her giving two blue rubber bands to Levy Atkinson a week later, but it was good while it lasted. She did teach me some valuable lessons about getting to know someone a while before you commit."
"And the second?" Eames asks. "Were more office supplies involved?"
"Nah, that ring was real." Arthur looks down for a moment. "I thought I would be with him for the long run, but it didn't quite turn out that way."
"Oh," Eames says. It occurs to him that hundreds of people have told him stories of heartbreak, some of whom he eventually wound up sleeping with. But this is the first time he's ever been rendered paralyzed by an emotion so foreign it takes a long moment to identify it: jealousy. "Why did it end?" he asks before he can stop himself.
"We were young and ignored the things we didn't want to see. Avoided talking about things that shouldn't have been problems, but ended up being problems because we'd avoided them for so long." Arthur shakes his head. "It's funny, because we should have known better than anyone else how unaddressed issues fester."
"He works in dreamshare, then?" Eames says, and there's a tremulous quality in his voice he doesn't like the sound of. Not that he's enjoying the sound of anything much in this conversation at all.
"Yeah, he's an academic. Worked only on the legal side and mostly as a consultant, not really in the field." Arthur, thankfully, doesn't seem to notice anything awry. "Anyway. You want the last wonton?"
Eames shakes his head and gestures for Arthur to take it. In all his years, Eames has felt envious on several occasions, bitter on others, but this uneasy, instantaneous dislike of a stranger is new.
As he watches Arthur tear into the wonton with visible pleasure, he wonders what this man might be like: a sweet, mild-mannered professor with an absent-minded streak, perhaps, and more interest in his research than the real world. Nothing like Eames, at the end of the day.
* * * * *
Arthur emerges from the shower, nude except for the towel he's drying his hair with. Eames snaps out of the drowsy state he'd been in, abruptly wide awake and enraptured by the view. Arthur's body is familiar but still erotic, relatively little hair to soften the chiseled edges. Eames supposes that in time he will grow used to it, perhaps even come to take it for granted as so many couples he's observed do-but he's nowhere near that point yet.
"Still up?" Arthur says, making no attempt to cover up and clearly enjoying the attention.
"Enough," Eames replies, not bothering with coyness. He could rally for another round of sex, but he's not anxious for it. Judging by the soft state of his cock, Arthur's not either.
"Do you snore?" Arthur drapes the towel over the back of a chair and slips beneath the covers. "I've never seen you in a non-PASIV induced sleep before."
"It's difficult for me to relax enough in a foreign bed," Eames says, which is most of the reason why he's never stayed the night in Arthur's flat. The other reasons he'd honestly prefer not to contemplate.
"I thought for the first month you were just blowing me off," Arthur says, sidling up to Eames on the mattress, not quite touching. "But then you kept calling and I figured maybe not."
"You were worried?" Eames asks as though the thought had never crossed his mind. But of course it had: as soon as Arthur had fallen asleep, Eames' thoughts had turned to the possibility of disappearing for a few months, resurfacing only after he was certain Arthur had given up looking. He'd considered the idea with some seriousness, but the notion of not seeing Arthur for all those months, not hearing his crisp American consonants and sly, unexpected humor-it had somehow seemed singularly unappealing.
And so he'd kissed Arthur goodbye instead of slipping out unnoticed, and called to say hello the following afternoon.
"I'm guessing you aren't a fan of cuddling, huh?" Arthur asks, wry, with a thread of hopefulness underneath.
"I don't mind it," Eames says, but in truth, he doesn't know. Most of his romantic affairs involve sweaty, athletic sex that segue into exhausted sleep for his partners and satisfied walks home for him. He's spent hours cuddling marks while deep in character, but that's a rather different affair than--this.
"Let me know if you want me to back off," Arthur says, moving closer to throw a leg over Eames' own and an arm across his waist. His hair sticks to Eames' shoulder, wet and slightly chilly.
Eames reaches out, intending to rearrange Arthur's hair to avoid dripping and ends up caressing his cheek instead, fingertips gliding over the curve of his jaw. These gestures are familiar, echoes of time spent with marks from dozens of jobs, and yet--
Arthur kisses Eames' shoulder. "Wake me when you want to get up tomorrow. I didn't set my alarm."
"What if I were to leave you here?" Eames asks, not sleepy at all.
"Don't," is Arthur's reply as his breathing slows and steadies. Eames listens to the sound of it for a long time afterwards.
* * * * *
"You're awake," Arthur says after he returns from taking a piss. The red numbers on the clock read three AM. "Did I wake you up?"
"No, I've been-" Eames pauses. "Couldn't sleep."
Arthur sits down on the edge of the bed but doesn't crawl under the covers. "Do you want me to hit the couch?"
"That's not necessary." Eames rakes his fingers through his hair, frustrated. "I've never spent the night with anyone besides a mark before, and even if I nod off with them I keep one eye open."
"You've run some pretty long cons," Arthur says, easing onto the mattress, legs above the sheets. "When'd you sleep during that time?"
"Cat naps here and there when I could manage it. Hard to feel secure enough for a full night's rest."
"I had insomnia as a kid." Arthur props himself up by the headboard and folds his hands in his lap. "Used to drive my mother crazy but I couldn't help it. We were constantly on the road and I never felt like there was a place for me to stake out as my own."
"You traveled a great deal when you were young?"
"Yup. I was a military brat," Arthur replies. "My mother became a lieutenant colonel and it was pretty much inevitable that I would follow in her footsteps, one way or another."
"And your father?"
"Don't know, don't really care." Eames studies Arthur, looking for anything in his expression that might contradict with his casual tone, but oddly, there's no disagreement; Arthur seems at peace with the matter. "Don't get me wrong, I spent a lot of my teenage years trying to find out. But I realized after a certain point that it wasn't going to tell me anything I didn't already know. Plus, around sixteen was when I discovered the wonders of sex and pretty much lost interest in anything else."
"Your mother never said?"
"No. And it could have been anybody, anywhere." Arthur shrugs. "I think she was a little surprised I came out so scrawny, though. I guess my father was a bigger guy."
"I like the shape you are," Eames says, unthinkingly. He meant to say: I don't think you're scrawny.
"Thanks." Arthur smiles as he slides down to lie beside Eames. "I like your shape too."
Eames stares up at the ceiling, once again at a loss for words. He's spent his entire life being told by strangers and companions and bedmates how beautiful he is. He doesn't know why it feels different when Arthur says it.
"Did you know your mother?" Arthur asks.
It takes Eames a moment to summon the answer to that. Pillow talk is something he's familiar with, but he usually has a prepared backstory to reveal: a tragic childhood of Dickensian proportions, or a staid one, dull and easy. Now all he has is the truth. "No," he says. "She had a rare heart condition that was aggravated by a difficult pregnancy. She died shortly after giving birth to me."
Arthur doesn't bother with noises of sympathy, dark eyes curious and thoughtful. "What about your dad?"
"He-I saw him occasionally." Eames tries to remember the last time he saw his father, but it's been years. Maybe even a decade, now. "Never possessed much interest in children despite a prodigious ability to conceive them."
"Daddy issues-gotta love them," Arthur says, deadpan, and Eames cracks a smile.
"Were you close?" Eames says, eager to turn the conversational focus away. "You and your mother?"
"Not really. She did the best that she could, but she wasn't really the maternal type. It was more my uncle-her brother-that kept an eye on me."
"What was he like?"
"Gay long before I knew what that meant. Looking back on it, he might as well have been carrying a neon sign. He was the one that taught me you are what you wear." Arthur chuckles softly. "Took me to buy my first suit on my sixteenth birthday. I was so pissed-I wanted a dirt-bike."
"A dirt-bike, eh?"
"I was such a little punk." Arthur grins. "I wore this beat up old military coat I found somewhere, combat boots, and grew my hair down my back. I thought I was the shit but really, I looked like the ridiculous teenager I was."
"Here you are, shattering all my illusions about your fresh-faced youth." Eames tries to imagine Arthur as the pimply teenager with an awkward rat-tail, and the image is somehow endearing.
"And I bet you went to private-sorry, public-school and wore a proper uniform with shined shoes," Arthur says, reaching forward to touch Eames' bicep.
"I did wear a uniform, this is true," Eames says, waiting to see where this is going.
"And did you sleep in the same dorms with, you know-"
"With other sexually charged young men?" Eames supplies. "Engaging in all sorts of blatantly homoerotic horseplay?"
"Well." Arthur coughs, but doesn't protest as his hand drifts lower, down to Eames' hip.
"Oh, I was terribly naughty," Eames says, finally catching on. "Always getting into scraps with the headmaster, my classmates…"
"Was there, uh." Arthur coughs again and reddens slightly. "I mean, was your first, um-"
"I received my first handjob before my first kiss."
"Wow," Arthur breathes out. "So someone just-"
"Stuck his hand down my trousers halfway through a film." Eames guides Arthur's hand beneath the waistband of his boxers to demonstrate. "First time anyone had ever touched me down there."
Arthur kisses Eames' neck as he begins to stroke Eames' cock. "What was it like?"
"Clumsy. Fumbling. Best thing I'd ever felt in my entire life up to that point," Eames says as his cock begins harden. "I could scarcely believe it was happening."
"Did you return the favor?"
"Mmm, later. Far later than was probably polite," Eames says. "I was so overwhelmed at the time that I completely forgot until days later."
Arthur chuckles. "You found a way to make it up to him?"
"I did. He was most appreciative," Eames replies, breathing growing heavy and short with Arthur's warm hand and affectionate kisses.
"I'll bet." Arthur kisses deeply, thoroughly, as his hand works Eames with an expertise gained from their months together. Months, Eames thinks-how did that happen?
"Again?" Eames asks, not displeased when Arthur pulls back the covers and bends down to nose around Eames' groin.
"You've got a great dick," Arthur says simply, and without any self-consciousness at all. If it's only a line, it's a damn effective one.
Eames strokes Arthur's hair as he comes for the second time that day. He lets out a startled laugh when Arthur tickles his side.
"You sleepy now?" Arthur asks, propping his chin on Eames' lower belly.
"A bit," Eames replies. "Was this all part of a larger scheme?"
"Maybe." Arthur moves to stretch out on top of Eames, half-hard cock bumping against Eames' hip. "Did it work?"
"Can't tell yet," Eames says, honestly. "But aren't you tired?"
"Sort of, but I'm actually kind of looking forward to sleeping in for once. It's been a while." Arthur winks. "We can call out sick tomorrow. I got an in with the boss."
"I don't know about that," Eames says. "I heard he's a real slave-driver."
"Really? Because I heard he's funny and brilliant and banging the hottest guy in the office."
"While I can't argue with the last bit, I find the first two-"
"Right on target. Undeniable," Arthur says. In the yellow-orange streaks of light from the streetlamps coming through the blinds, his smile is completely disarming.
"Precisely," Eames says as he takes Arthur's cock in hand. Arthur laughs, and grins, and meets Eames' eyes fearlessly. In the end, it's Eames who looks away.
"Are there any photos of you at that age?" Arthur asks after they've cleaned up. He's lying on his side a few inches away, idly playing with Eames' chest hair. It tickles. "When you were in school, I mean."
"All photos of me under the age of twenty-one were mysteriously destroyed in a random act of arson-based violence about a decade ago," Eames says. "Along with every existing government record."
"Oh," Arthur says, and tries to cover his visible disappointment by adding, "I think I remember that from the background search."
"Searching for fresh fodder for a wank, hm?"
"Yep," Arthur deadpans. "In between seeing you every day, and fucking you every other one, I'd also like to jerk off to a photo of you in between."
Eames stretches his arms out, chest puffing. "Yes, as I expected. There's simply never enough of me to satisfy your desperate longing."
Arthur grins, but then grows serious again. "It's too bad. I would have liked to have seen it."
"Really?" Eames glances at Arthur, but he doesn't seem to be joking. "Why?"
"Because it's a part of who you are. Who you were, I mean." Arthur traces the bristly stubble along the edge of Eames' jaw. "I like finding out more about you. The man behind all the masks."
Why? Eames wants to ask again, but instead he says, "There's always the PASIV."
"You'd be up for that?"
"I've never tried this scenario specifically, but I don't see why it wouldn't be feasible."
Arthur smiles, bright and joyful. Eames feels a stirring within him-not raw animal lust, or even the high of reckless infatuation he's grown familiar with over the years-but something quieter, soft and warm. It's a feeling that's been coming on more and more often in the past few months, unbidden but not entirely unwelcome.
* * * * *
Eames opens his eyes to a classroom. There are desks, a chalkboard, and large gothic windows on either side, lending some architectural flare to the scene. It bears only the most passing resemblance to anything he might have seen growing up, but the idea is clear enough and in some ways he's glad for it. Recreating and reliving memories are easy ways to begin blurring the line between dreams and reality.
At the head of the classroom is Arthur, clad in spectacles, a tweed waistcoat and jacket with patches on the elbows. He's bent over the desk, pen scratching away as his brow furrows in concentration. He hasn't noticed Eames yet.
Eames holds up a mirror in his hand and watches his reflection shift easily enough, cheeks filling and smoothing, jaw softening. He allows his body to grow leaner but retains the more fully developed musculature he'd only reached in his early twenties; that and the lack of facial blemishes are an exercise of his artistic license.
Eames stands and approaches Arthur, who is still writing, reaching up to adjust the spectacles on his nose every few minutes. It isn't until Eames is right beside the desk that Arthur looks up.
"Eames," Arthur says. "Can I help you with something?"
Eames glides along the side of the desk, coming to rest near Arthur with a hip cocked. "I have a few questions, Professor King, if you've a moment."
Arthur puts down his pen. "Of course."
Eames takes a deep breath and feels himself begin to sink into character, the teenager he once was. If he'd met Arthur as a youth, he would have found him stunningly handsome: all boyish good looks grounded by a serious, intellectual air. He'd have been fascinated by Arthur's American-ness as well-those perfect white teeth, his sharp accent-nothing at all like the fat tourists he'd met before. Arthur would be exciting, exotic, a fantasy to wank to for weeks.
"I had a question about the lesson today," Eames says, watching Professor King's hands go still on the desk. He has long, elegant fingers, and Eames wonders what they'd taste like if he took one into his mouth. He wonders whether the professor would like that.
"About The Great Gatsby?"
"Yes. It's about what Daisy saw in Gatsby. She met him twice, in two very different circumstances," Eames says. "What was it that drew her in?"
"That's an intriguing question, Eames," Professor King says, voice thoughtful, not mocking like Eames had been half-worried about. "I suppose she probably found him compelling for the same reasons the narrator and readers find him compelling-in many ways, he's the embodiment of the American dream."
"Do you mean the idea that someone could become anything they want?" Eames says, inching closer to the professor and hoping he doesn't notice.
"Gatsby did whatever it took to achieve his life's ambitions," Professor King says, eyes huge and dark behind his glasses. "Most people are afraid to take the kind of risks he did, even if that means staying stuck in the rut they were born in forever."
Eames shifts, ostensibly to stretch his legs, and a thigh grazes against one of Professor King's. He quietly thrills when the professor doesn't move away. "And what about you, Professor? Are you afraid?"
The professor swallows, Adam's apple bobbing. Eames wants to lick and suck all around it. "I've got nothing to be scared of."
"No?" Eames lowers his eyes and peers up at the professor through his lashes.
"Mr. Eames," Professor King starts, but doesn't finish, voice faltering when Eames licks his lower lip.
Feeling reckless, Eames reaches out to take Professor King's spectacles off, careful not to allow his hands to come in contact with the professor's hair, his face. Eames gives the lenses a quick polish with the edge of his shirt and puts them on himself, blinking owlishly before the world comes back into focus.
Without the glasses, the professor looks young-young enough to pass as a student from a distance. He's so fit Eames feels his stomach turn over in arousal.
"Have you ever been in love, Professor?" Eames asks, touching the line of the professor's lapel, smoothing it down.
"I'm not sure that's an appropriate topic of conversation between teacher and student," Professor King replies, voice raspy. He hasn't moved, seems almost frozen in his seat.
"Would you ever do something like Gatsby did for Daisy?" Eames trails his fingertips up Professor King's neck, skin vulnerable and warm.
"I think I'd prefer someone who wants me the way I am." The professor catches his hand. Eames prepares to be pushed away, for everything to come crashing down around him, but instead the professor pulls him closer. "Wouldn't you?"
"Most people bore me," Eames says, fighting to keep his voice level. Aside from the hand Professor King still holds, they're not touching. His grip is firm, though, firmer than Eames expected. "I can't imagine wanting anyone for years and years."
Professor King smiles. "You're young yet. Give it time."
"Ugh." Eames rolls his eyes. "Everyone always says that, as if it's supposed to be some great truth. I don't need time-I know what I like."
The professor seems more amused by this outburst than anything. He's running his thumbs over Eames' knuckles now. "Do you?"
"I know what I want right now." Eames takes a step forward, one thigh sliding in between the professor's spread legs. "I don't know whether I'll want it tomorrow. I don't care if I do."
"And what if I don't care about what you want?" the professor asks. He's studying Eames calmly, as if he were in complete control of the situation. He's not, though-Eames can feel the hard dig of an erection against his thigh.
"Of course you care." Eames rolls his hips slowly against the professor's leg, sees the flicker of pure lust that crosses his face. "I always get what I want."
"That's funny." Professor King snakes a surprisingly strong arm around Eames' waist and drags him in, knocking the breath from him. "So do I."
It all proceeds quickly after that: the professor guiding Eames to his knees, easing his beautiful cock out of his wool trousers. It's heavy and hard, large enough to make Eames' jaw ache but he doesn't care, not with Professor King murmuring soft praise above him. He tries to touch himself but the professor stops him, tells him to stroke his bollocks instead, hold them so gently. Eames complies, and it's worth it to hear the sharp intake of the professor's breath, the way his thighs tremble on either side of Eames' head.
Eames comes first, without so much as a hand on his cock. He comes with Professor King's dick deep in his mouth, moans his way through orgasm and nearly chokes when that causes the professor to come. Professor King makes it up to him, though, when he bends Eames over the desk and fucks him surely, confidently. He lasts for what seems like forever, coaxing another orgasm from Eames before really starting to go hard.
Eames comes and comes, so many times it should ache. It's wonderful.
* * * * *
"Wow," Arthur says when they wake up.
"Good?" Eames asks. He sits up slowly, more disoriented at waking up in his older body (stiffness, aches, and pains) than he cares to admit.
Arthur gets up and kneels by Eames' chaise lounge. "Amazing." He takes Eames' jaw in hand and kisses him. "You're amazing."
* * * * *
They leave the office shortly thereafter. Eames takes out his car keys and starts to peel away when Arthur says, "Hey, do you want dinner? I was thinking about making some pasta back at mine."
Eames is in a good mood and hungry enough, so he agrees. They walk back to Arthur's flat together-only about a twenty minute walk, convenient-and Arthur sets the linguine to boil. He's using jarred sauce, and puts Eames to work grating the mozzarella, opening the Merlot.
They have pasta and salad at the dining table, which looks like it was ordered straight out of a furniture catalogue a week ago. It probably was, but the apartment's starting to accumulate more personality: a stack of mail on the counter, a few paintings on the wall. One looks to be an original Bacon.
They chat about weather, politics, and debate amicably about the possibility of remote dreamshare. Eames thinks that while everyone currently claiming to be able to invade dreams from afar is a quack, one day the technology will make it possible. Arthur, stubbornly and predictably, falls into the naysayers' camp, arguing that there are limits to everything.
At the end of the meal, Eames puts the dishes away in the stainless steel dishwasher while Arthur puzzles over the controls.
"I've never actually, uh, used this before," Arthur admits as he breaks the seal on a package of dish detergent.
"You've been hand-washing your dishes all these months?" Eames asks, because Arthur's sink is empty. He doesn't see a drying rack.
"I haven't-" Arthur coughs. "This is my first time using actual china and glasses since I've moved in." Eames watches in bemusement as Arthur opens a cabinet, which is thoroughly stocked with paper plates and plastic utensils. Such things shouldn't be charming.
After they've got the dishwasher up and running, Arthur asks, "Do you want to go to bed?"
Eames is loose-limbed and sleepy from the wine, but he's fairly sure he can muster a somewhat coordinated blowjob, or savor the weight of Arthur moving on top of him. He thinks he might enjoy that, lying back and waiting for Arthur to make him come however he'd like.
They disrobe and kiss, lazy, aimless, but Arthur declines to go further.
"Let's go to sleep," he says, guiding Eames' head to his own pillow.
Eames looks over at Arthur, uncertain. They're in bed together and they're not going to have sex?
"Thank you." Arthur's lying on his side of the bed, a respectful distance from Eames. "For earlier. It was a lot of fun."
"Yes," Eames says, but it sounds odd in his throat. He wonders if-but no, Arthur would tell him if he was bored already, wouldn't he?
Eames turns over onto his side and takes in the surroundings, listens to the sound of quiet breathing behind him.
Arthur clears his throat. "Will you…"
Eames looks back over his shoulder. It's dark in the room, difficult to see. "Yes?"
"Will you be here when I wake up?" Arthur's voice wavers slightly. "Because I'd-I'd like it if you were."
"I." Eames considers the possibility of staying here an entire night, defenseless and in unfamiliar territory. It makes his toes twitch with uneasiness, restlessness. "I'll try."
Eames doesn't sleep for a long time after that. From the sound of his breathing, Arthur doesn't either.
* * * * *
Eames dreams about one of his former marks.
Natural dreams are few and far between after so many years of Somnacin exposure, but they still occur every now and again for Eames.
It's thinking about his prior marks that's the true rarity. He notes both these facts vaguely as he moves through the dream, halfway lucid though not fully in control.
The mark is a woman who'd been in her early thirties when Eames knew her, rather plain but keenly intelligent. She'd been suspicious in the early days of their courtship, but like all his marks, had eventually fallen in love with the man he'd pretended to be. Eames created the persona especially for her, after all.
She discovered his true purpose shortly before he fled, pulling together all the pieces as she watched him pack. He dreams of that confrontation, her tear-stained face and the way she asked, "Who are you?"
"Does it matter, really?" He tried to be kind. "After this, I'll be someone else. And someone else, after him."
Nothing said made any difference in the end, of course. She shouted, she sobbed, she begged him to reconsider. Most of it has disappeared into the hazy past, but there's one thing that surfaces in the dream, perfectly articulated in her angry voice, "I bet you're nothing at all when you're not pretending to be someone else."
It was intended to hurt, but he hadn't been, not at the time. He'd been proud, in fact-what better sort of con man than the one that had no patterns, no habits, no flaws? Who more able to become someone else than a person who could disappear without a trace?
* * * * *
Eames opens his eyes to Arthur seated on the edge of the bed in his boxers. Arthur's watching him. "H'llo," Eames musters, after a moment.
"Morning," Arthur says, hushed. His expression is difficult to read. "You looked like you were dreaming."
"I was." Eames rubs the crust from his eyes.
"You still have natural dreams?"
"Rarely. Once every few months or so." Eames pauses; there's an unmistakable yearning in Arthur's eyes, now. "You don't?"
"Not since the first time I came into contact with Somnacin, almost a decade ago," Arthur says. "What's it like?"
"Confusing. I keep expecting to be able to take control, change things." Eames chuckles softly. "But nothing follows the rules I set out. Natural consequences don’t flow from actions the way I want them to."
Arthur puts a hand on Eames' stomach, bare where the covers have slipped off. "I didn't know you got confused."
Eames' brow furrows slightly as he tries to keep his abdominal muscles tight. "Of course I do."
"You always seem so certain of everything." Arthur traces the line of a tattoo, then stands. "You in the mood for eggs? I could scramble a couple while you hop in the shower and brush your teeth."
Eames sits up."I didn't bring a toothbrush."
"I found an extra in the cabinet and left it on the sink," Arthur says. "There are also clean towels and soap-use whatever you want."
The toothbrush is, as promised, set out next to an unopened package of toothpaste. The toothbrush is a rather pleasant shade of red and both happen to be from Eames' usual brands. He didn't think they were popular in the States, but maybe he was wrong about that.
He comes out of the shower to the smell of burning and Arthur frantically dowsing the egg pan in milk. The end result is mostly edible when Eames covers it in ketchup and gulps it down with coffee.
"Is something caught in my teeth?" Eames asks when he catches Arthur watching him, his own plate of eggs largely untouched.
"No, it's just-" Arthur looks away and then back again, almost shyly. "You're still here."
Onto Chapter 3: The Lounge
Chapter 1: The Conservatory
Master post of all chapters here.
Chapter 1: The Conservatory
The dream is set inside an opulent mansion. There are two storeys and numerous rooms, all complete down to the library bookshelves filled with novels in multiple languages. There's nothing old world about the elegance of the setting though-this is no faux-European manor, but rather a modern American take on luxury, more in the vein of Frank Lloyd Wright than an English castle.
They're seated in two armchairs in front of a fireplace, highball glasses in their hands while well-dressed party guests mingle and chatter around them. Arthur's wearing a pinstriped suit, jacket unbuttoned and no tie, while Eames is wearing his outfit from dinner (vertical striped coral button-down and chinos).
"The idea is to create a series of fully immersive, pre-programmed dream scenarios that clients can plug into," Arthur says, smiling politely at the butler who refreshes his glass. "We create a setting, a storyline, and allow clients to play through the story."
"So it's a game?" Eames says as several projections in a far corner of the room burst into laughter. "And clients pay to play within the dream?"
"Exactly. Depending on the dream scenario, a client could even engage in the dream with a partner or a group of their friends." Across the room, a piercing scream silences the crowd, and all the projections turn towards the screamer. "Shall we?" Arthur asks, inclining his head.
They stand and make their way through the crowd of murmuring projections to where a dead body lies, blood pooling around the head. "It's Mr. Boddy," one of the projections whispers. "Someone murdered Mr. Boddy!"
"It has to be someone in the building," another projection chimes in. "I spoke with him only twenty minutes ago!"
"The police have been called," the butler says. "Everyone must wait for them to arrive. No one is to leave."
As Eames and Arthur walk away from the hubbub, Eames says, "So the client gets to solve a murder mystery?"
"Exactly." Arthur beams. "There are other storylines that I was thinking about exploring, but this is one I think most people will be familiar with and understand. Plus, there's the flexibility of creating different themes. We can set it in Victorian England and play at being Sherlock Holmes or set it in Hollywood where everyone at the party is a celebrity-whatever clients might be interested in."
"Fascinating," Eames says as the lights flicker ominously above them. "You're trying to make this into an ongoing business, then. Set up shop?"
"If I can, yeah," Arthur says. "Dream entertainment isn't illegal in the US and I figured maybe-this might be a way to make some steady income without having to fly all over the world as much."
"Interested in settling down, Arthur?" Eames has known Arthur for close to five years now, observed his transition from trigger-happy ex-Marine desperate to prove himself to someone more relaxed and yet precise, confident in his own skin at last. Throughout the years, the one constant Eames had always known to be true of Arthur was his wanderlust and general restlessness-but perhaps this, too, is changing.
"Thought it might be a nice change of pace, staying put for a while," Arthur says. "I don't know if it's for good, but I'd like to stick around an apartment long enough to unpack my moving boxes."
"Poor Mr. Boddy," Eames says with a mournful glance at the projection on the ground. "Sacrificed at the altar of your ambition."
"I'm pretty ruthless when it comes to getting what I want," Arthur agrees as he bumps his shoulder against Eames' companionably. "I could do the architecture, the design, the basic storyline. I have a chemist lined up-Rosalina, I don't know if you've met her, she mostly does local work in the US. Anyway, she's been developing some custom cocktails that could help keep the dream more stable and improve our control over projections."
"And what will my role be?"
"You can stand around my office looking pretty," Arthur deadpans. "Maybe feed me grapes and dab my sweat away after a long day of work."
"Then you're offering me a position which is purely ornamental, is what you're saying." Eames hooks a finger into Arthur's waistband to pull him closer. "How much is the pay again?"
"Is the prospect of feeding me grapes and giving me sponge-baths not payment enough?" Arthur asks, curling his arms around Eames' waist. "You drive hard bargains, Mr. Eames."
"Well, I certainly wouldn't want to be taken advantage of by a smooth-talking American," Eames murmurs as he leans in to give Arthur's mouth a little nip. In the background, a few of the projections leer and catcall. "I expect to be properly compensated for any services rendered."
"I suppose I could give you a percentage of the profits after we get our first paying customers." Arthur kisses Eames on the tip of his nose and then pulls back a few inches. "If we upgrade your role to something that isn't entirely decorative."
"You're going to put me to work in a coal-mine, aren't you?" Eames says. "This is all some elaborate trap."
"While I think you'd make an excellent miner, I was hoping we could play to some of your more unique talents," Arthur says. "Your job would be working with the projections, the characters in the story. No one can control projections in dreamshare like you can, and you could bring them to life for the clients. I was also thinking you should forge the murderer in the dream."
"So it was me dressed as Ms. Scarlett, in the Billiard Room, with the candlestick," Eames concludes.
"Or you as Professor Plum in the library with the rope," Arthur says. "We can develop multiple storylines, even offer replayability with a different set of circumstances and murderers to clients who might be interested. It's not infinite possibility, but it's a good number."
"With a set number of variables to control." Eames glances round the well-appointed room and nods. "Fascinating."
"Yeah?" Arthur smiles tentatively. "Really? You're not just saying that for the sake of a handjob?"
"While I'll never say no to a handjob, I will say no to an idea I don't care for," Eames says. "This is interesting. There are dream dens and dream brothels, but less seedy entertainment in a more structured environment for a limited time period-I can think of several clients I've worked with who might be interested in this."
Arthur smiles so broadly dimples appear in both his cheeks. "I'll see you State-side, then."
* * * * *
The office space Arthur rents is clean, in a generic high-rise building in an acceptable but decidedly less than trendy neighborhood of San Francisco. It's located on the fourth floor and contains all the usual essentials: a small waiting area, several offices of varying sizes, a break room, and a single, unisex bathroom. Every room has a door with a lock-not enough to keep anyone particularly determined at bay, but enough to buy a few seconds to escape if need be.
There's already some furniture set up when Eames arrives: lamps, desks, chairs-all ergonomic, but more spare than luxurious.
The one notable indulgence, however, is the set of blue chaise lounges set up in the largest office. There's a small end table between the chairs where the PASIV is clearly meant to go, and the chairs resemble neither mass market retail styles nor high end designer styles. They seem nearly anachronistic in the modern, minimalist setting they're currently occupying.
"No food or drinks in this room," Arthur says. "I had those custom-made and upholstered."
"Not even water?" Eames asks, not so much for the answer as for Arthur's reaction. No matter how much time has passes, he apparently will never tire of testing Arthur's boundaries.
"No exceptions," Arthur says, and adds, "And no sex in here, either during or after hours."
"So the loo during lunch, then?" Eames asks as a hand drifts down the curve of Arthur's bottom.
"While we're here, we should really focus on work, Eames." Arthur's voice is as somber as it ever is, but he makes no move to remove Eames' wandering hand.
Given that Eames has worked in environs ranging from huts in the desert to abandoned underground nuclear bunkers, he certainly hasn't any complaints. He's done office work before, but this will mark the first time he'll be doing it without any ulterior motive. The first time he'll be doing it as himself.
Chapter 2: The Ballroom
"I wasn't sure what you liked, so I brought one of each," Eames says as he sets a box of doughnuts down on Arthur's desk. He's worked in dozens of offices-he knows the script for winning over the hearts of cubicle-bound coworkers and managers.
"Oh." Arthur's delight is radiant, startling. "I like the ones with the jelly filling."
"Ah." There's an expectant pause from Arthur and Eames adds, "I like the ones with the icing and sprinkles."
"They do look good," Arthur replies, face already covered in sugar. "And thanks, by the way."
"You're welcome." And then, to restrain himself from the impulse to kiss Arthur's powdery cheeks, Eames says, "Do you remember the first thing you ever said to me?"
"I don't," Arthur says. "But it was probably something dickish."
"You said, and I quote, 'get the fuck out of my dream, asshole.'"
Arthur winces, then chuckles. "Sorry about that. I had a lot of pent-up aggression that manifested in general fuckheadery."
"At least you acknowledge it openly now," Eames says, taking a bite out of his own doughnut.
"And you were just a ray of sunshine back then, too, huh?" Arthur softens the words with a smile. "Always skulking around, brooding in the corners-"
"I didn't-" Eames stops. "I did not skulk. I brooded in the full light of day."
Arthur chuckles. "What were you always so somber about anyway? I don't think I saw you smile once in the first two years we knew each other."
"Well, you did introduce yourself by shooting me in the neck and telling me to fuck off."
"That was a tranquilizer dart and, to be fair, you were there to try to steal my mark's secrets."
"A mistake I learned never to repeat," Eames says, rubbing his neck where he can still remember the dart sinking in.
The truth is, when they first met Eames had been coming off a job playing a violent ex-convict, complete with hideous prison tattoos and a hair trigger for hostility. Working with a man who'd shot him required a radical shift in personality and reasoning in a very short period of time. When emerging from deep cover as an extreme persona, sometimes there is… leakage.
"Well, hey. We've both grown, and here we are." Arthur's hand skims across the desk surface to rest near Eames' leg, pinky barely touching in a near-violation of their no-PDA-in-the-office rule.
"Yes," Eames says, staring down at his half-eaten doughnut. "Here we are."
* * * * *
There's a knock on Eames' office door. He looks away from the glare of his computer screen, abruptly and uncomfortably aware of the crick in his neck, the tension where he's been hunching his shoulders over the keyboard for the better half of the day. He'd forgotten quite how glamorous deskwork could be. "Come in," Eames calls out.
"Hey." Arthur opens the door a crack and pokes his head in. "This a good time? I could come back later."
Eames glances at the numbers at the lower half of his screen; he's been drafting this bloody letter for the better half of two hours. "No, this is fine. I could use the break."
Arthur crosses the room to stand in front of Eames' desk, holding out a box of paperclips. "These are for you. I know you were looking for some earlier."
Eames blinks, and takes them. Normally, he's a master of social nuance, able to divine meaning from the tiniest social interactions and seeming trivialities. But there's something about Arthur that always leaves him flat-footed, unable to do anything but gape. It's abominable, really. "Thank you."
"No problem." Arthur's arms drop, fingertips brushing lightly across the surface of Eames' desk. "I was wondering if you were in the mood for some greasy Chinese takeout tonight. I found a place that uses a shit ton of MSG and delivers."
Eames leans back in his chair, tension in his back easing already. "Not interested in the real thing, then?"
"We can do authentic Cantonese cuisine another night," Arthur says. "Today, I've got a craving for the saltiest, most Americanized General Tso's chicken you can find in the state."
"You've won me over with your mouthwatering descriptors," Eames says, and resists the impulse to catch Arthur's hand in his and kiss it. They'd agreed early on to keep their interactions strictly professional while in the office, a rule Eames has been finding harder to adhere to, as of late.
The smile on Arthur's face is dazzling, but slips as he deliberates over his next words. "I was also wondering if I could ask-for a favor."
"If it's a kidney, I'm afraid I only have one left and I'm partial to the idea of keeping it."
Arthur smiles, but shakes his head, eyes stubbornly serious. "Remember I told you last week that I was getting my apartment painted? It's done now but the smell is-well, it's been driving me crazy. I've been trying to air the place out, but since it's been so damp lately…"
Eames raises his eyebrows, waiting for Arthur to reach his actual request.
"I was wondering if I could stay with you for a night or two, just until the paint settles and the smell fades," Arthur says, words hurried. "I know it's a lot, since we work together and eat dinner together and-well. I can always get a hotel room, so if you think it might be an overload, I'd understand."
"Are you sure you wouldn't rather a piece of my kidney?" Eames jokes, lamely, and is rewarded with a strained smile from Arthur. "I mean-yes. You should stay over. There's no need for a hotel room when I have a perfectly serviceable flat."
"You're sure?" Arthur asks, seeming hopeful. "I know you like your space. I don't want to intrude."
Eames wonders when Arthur started knowing him well enough to guess at his objections, much less overcome them. "As long as you're not expecting the height of luxury for the duration of your stay, I think I'll manage."
"You mean you're not going to cater to my champagne taste?" Arthur inquires. "No caviar after our Chinese takeout feast?"
"I may have some stale biscuits and a bottle of vinegar that used to be red wine," Eames replies. "You are welcome to both."
"Appetizing," Arthur says dryly, but seems chuffed anyway.
* * * * *
They leave work together early, Arthur swinging by Eames' office with an already packed overnight bag (naturally). He follows Eames to his leased sedan.
"I guess I get to finally see your inner sanctum," Arthur says as he puts a warm hand on Eames' right knee.
"I didn't do any of the decorating," Eames says. "The apartment came furnished. Nothing there is mine except for the clothing and the linens."
"What colors are the linens?"
"White."
"Well." Arthur pauses. "Clutter is overrated anyway."
So are permanent homes, Eames thinks, but doesn't say so because Arthur's hand is creeping up the inside of Eames' thigh and he doesn't want to dissuade it in any way.
They make it to a dark corner of the parking deck attached to Eames' apartment complex without any accidents, Arthur allowing Eames to shimmy out of his trousers halfway before bending over to take his dick in his mouth.
After a lovely blowjob and reciprocating handjob, Eames leads Arthur to his flat, waiting for comment or judgment. Neither seem to be forthcoming, however. Arthur simply drops his bag in the bedroom and asks, "You ready for dinner?"
They place an order, sipping glasses of the Malbec Arthur had the foresight to pack (of course) and chat casually about the day while waiting for the food. One thing Eames hadn't expected from Arthur was the amount of rather straightforward talking they'd do; Arthur, who'd been, in the past, reserved to the point of being laconic, now seemingly enjoys conversing with Eames as much as he enjoys shagging him.
Is this what it's like? Eames wonders as Arthur pays for the delivery and unpacks a vast fleet of paper cartons. Is this why people bother with something besides sex?
"They only gave us one pair of chopsticks," Arthur says, frowning as he peers into the bottom of the plastic bag. "You want it?"
"I have forks," Eames replies, opening the silverware drawer.
"I'm okay with the chopsticks," Arthur says. "You sure you don't want them?"
"Positive," Eames replies as he takes a seat at the kitchen table. He's eaten dinner with Arthur hundreds of times before, but this is the first in his home-temporary though it may be-and it feels odd. Not entirely unpleasant, but not quite comfortable.
The flow of conversation continues through their oil-soaked dinner, drifting from work topics to philosophy to fashion. Arthur's in the midst of experimenting with various tie widths after reading an article in GQ about it, and Eames is studying the pages of Vanity Fair for Ms. Scarlett's dream wardrobe. They agree that Emerald is an excellent pick for Pantone color of the year.
After devouring most of the admittedly delicious chicken, Arthur reaches across the wasteland of empty containers for a fortune cookie. He breaks it open and huffs a small laugh. "Two secrets to a happy marriage: a sense of humor and a short memory."
There's something in Arthur's voice that causes Eames to look up from his own cookie ('If you wish to know the mind of a man, listen to his words.') "You've been married before?"
"Yeah," Arthur says, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly. "Married once, engaged twice."
"Ah." Eames isn't entirely sure what else to say in response to that. He's been involved in 'relationships' of sorts for long cons, all of which involved some sort of secret agenda (information, influence, etc).
"The first time was on the playground underneath the slide," Arthur says. "Suzie Chen proposed to me with a blue rubber band. Blue's my favorite color, so I said yes. It all ended in tragedy when I saw her giving two blue rubber bands to Levy Atkinson a week later, but it was good while it lasted. She did teach me some valuable lessons about getting to know someone a while before you commit."
"And the second?" Eames asks. "Were more office supplies involved?"
"Nah, that ring was real." Arthur looks down for a moment. "I thought I would be with him for the long run, but it didn't quite turn out that way."
"Oh," Eames says. It occurs to him that hundreds of people have told him stories of heartbreak, some of whom he eventually wound up sleeping with. But this is the first time he's ever been rendered paralyzed by an emotion so foreign it takes a long moment to identify it: jealousy. "Why did it end?" he asks before he can stop himself.
"We were young and ignored the things we didn't want to see. Avoided talking about things that shouldn't have been problems, but ended up being problems because we'd avoided them for so long." Arthur shakes his head. "It's funny, because we should have known better than anyone else how unaddressed issues fester."
"He works in dreamshare, then?" Eames says, and there's a tremulous quality in his voice he doesn't like the sound of. Not that he's enjoying the sound of anything much in this conversation at all.
"Yeah, he's an academic. Worked only on the legal side and mostly as a consultant, not really in the field." Arthur, thankfully, doesn't seem to notice anything awry. "Anyway. You want the last wonton?"
Eames shakes his head and gestures for Arthur to take it. In all his years, Eames has felt envious on several occasions, bitter on others, but this uneasy, instantaneous dislike of a stranger is new.
As he watches Arthur tear into the wonton with visible pleasure, he wonders what this man might be like: a sweet, mild-mannered professor with an absent-minded streak, perhaps, and more interest in his research than the real world. Nothing like Eames, at the end of the day.
* * * * *
Arthur emerges from the shower, nude except for the towel he's drying his hair with. Eames snaps out of the drowsy state he'd been in, abruptly wide awake and enraptured by the view. Arthur's body is familiar but still erotic, relatively little hair to soften the chiseled edges. Eames supposes that in time he will grow used to it, perhaps even come to take it for granted as so many couples he's observed do-but he's nowhere near that point yet.
"Still up?" Arthur says, making no attempt to cover up and clearly enjoying the attention.
"Enough," Eames replies, not bothering with coyness. He could rally for another round of sex, but he's not anxious for it. Judging by the soft state of his cock, Arthur's not either.
"Do you snore?" Arthur drapes the towel over the back of a chair and slips beneath the covers. "I've never seen you in a non-PASIV induced sleep before."
"It's difficult for me to relax enough in a foreign bed," Eames says, which is most of the reason why he's never stayed the night in Arthur's flat. The other reasons he'd honestly prefer not to contemplate.
"I thought for the first month you were just blowing me off," Arthur says, sidling up to Eames on the mattress, not quite touching. "But then you kept calling and I figured maybe not."
"You were worried?" Eames asks as though the thought had never crossed his mind. But of course it had: as soon as Arthur had fallen asleep, Eames' thoughts had turned to the possibility of disappearing for a few months, resurfacing only after he was certain Arthur had given up looking. He'd considered the idea with some seriousness, but the notion of not seeing Arthur for all those months, not hearing his crisp American consonants and sly, unexpected humor-it had somehow seemed singularly unappealing.
And so he'd kissed Arthur goodbye instead of slipping out unnoticed, and called to say hello the following afternoon.
"I'm guessing you aren't a fan of cuddling, huh?" Arthur asks, wry, with a thread of hopefulness underneath.
"I don't mind it," Eames says, but in truth, he doesn't know. Most of his romantic affairs involve sweaty, athletic sex that segue into exhausted sleep for his partners and satisfied walks home for him. He's spent hours cuddling marks while deep in character, but that's a rather different affair than--this.
"Let me know if you want me to back off," Arthur says, moving closer to throw a leg over Eames' own and an arm across his waist. His hair sticks to Eames' shoulder, wet and slightly chilly.
Eames reaches out, intending to rearrange Arthur's hair to avoid dripping and ends up caressing his cheek instead, fingertips gliding over the curve of his jaw. These gestures are familiar, echoes of time spent with marks from dozens of jobs, and yet--
Arthur kisses Eames' shoulder. "Wake me when you want to get up tomorrow. I didn't set my alarm."
"What if I were to leave you here?" Eames asks, not sleepy at all.
"Don't," is Arthur's reply as his breathing slows and steadies. Eames listens to the sound of it for a long time afterwards.
* * * * *
"You're awake," Arthur says after he returns from taking a piss. The red numbers on the clock read three AM. "Did I wake you up?"
"No, I've been-" Eames pauses. "Couldn't sleep."
Arthur sits down on the edge of the bed but doesn't crawl under the covers. "Do you want me to hit the couch?"
"That's not necessary." Eames rakes his fingers through his hair, frustrated. "I've never spent the night with anyone besides a mark before, and even if I nod off with them I keep one eye open."
"You've run some pretty long cons," Arthur says, easing onto the mattress, legs above the sheets. "When'd you sleep during that time?"
"Cat naps here and there when I could manage it. Hard to feel secure enough for a full night's rest."
"I had insomnia as a kid." Arthur props himself up by the headboard and folds his hands in his lap. "Used to drive my mother crazy but I couldn't help it. We were constantly on the road and I never felt like there was a place for me to stake out as my own."
"You traveled a great deal when you were young?"
"Yup. I was a military brat," Arthur replies. "My mother became a lieutenant colonel and it was pretty much inevitable that I would follow in her footsteps, one way or another."
"And your father?"
"Don't know, don't really care." Eames studies Arthur, looking for anything in his expression that might contradict with his casual tone, but oddly, there's no disagreement; Arthur seems at peace with the matter. "Don't get me wrong, I spent a lot of my teenage years trying to find out. But I realized after a certain point that it wasn't going to tell me anything I didn't already know. Plus, around sixteen was when I discovered the wonders of sex and pretty much lost interest in anything else."
"Your mother never said?"
"No. And it could have been anybody, anywhere." Arthur shrugs. "I think she was a little surprised I came out so scrawny, though. I guess my father was a bigger guy."
"I like the shape you are," Eames says, unthinkingly. He meant to say: I don't think you're scrawny.
"Thanks." Arthur smiles as he slides down to lie beside Eames. "I like your shape too."
Eames stares up at the ceiling, once again at a loss for words. He's spent his entire life being told by strangers and companions and bedmates how beautiful he is. He doesn't know why it feels different when Arthur says it.
"Did you know your mother?" Arthur asks.
It takes Eames a moment to summon the answer to that. Pillow talk is something he's familiar with, but he usually has a prepared backstory to reveal: a tragic childhood of Dickensian proportions, or a staid one, dull and easy. Now all he has is the truth. "No," he says. "She had a rare heart condition that was aggravated by a difficult pregnancy. She died shortly after giving birth to me."
Arthur doesn't bother with noises of sympathy, dark eyes curious and thoughtful. "What about your dad?"
"He-I saw him occasionally." Eames tries to remember the last time he saw his father, but it's been years. Maybe even a decade, now. "Never possessed much interest in children despite a prodigious ability to conceive them."
"Daddy issues-gotta love them," Arthur says, deadpan, and Eames cracks a smile.
"Were you close?" Eames says, eager to turn the conversational focus away. "You and your mother?"
"Not really. She did the best that she could, but she wasn't really the maternal type. It was more my uncle-her brother-that kept an eye on me."
"What was he like?"
"Gay long before I knew what that meant. Looking back on it, he might as well have been carrying a neon sign. He was the one that taught me you are what you wear." Arthur chuckles softly. "Took me to buy my first suit on my sixteenth birthday. I was so pissed-I wanted a dirt-bike."
"A dirt-bike, eh?"
"I was such a little punk." Arthur grins. "I wore this beat up old military coat I found somewhere, combat boots, and grew my hair down my back. I thought I was the shit but really, I looked like the ridiculous teenager I was."
"Here you are, shattering all my illusions about your fresh-faced youth." Eames tries to imagine Arthur as the pimply teenager with an awkward rat-tail, and the image is somehow endearing.
"And I bet you went to private-sorry, public-school and wore a proper uniform with shined shoes," Arthur says, reaching forward to touch Eames' bicep.
"I did wear a uniform, this is true," Eames says, waiting to see where this is going.
"And did you sleep in the same dorms with, you know-"
"With other sexually charged young men?" Eames supplies. "Engaging in all sorts of blatantly homoerotic horseplay?"
"Well." Arthur coughs, but doesn't protest as his hand drifts lower, down to Eames' hip.
"Oh, I was terribly naughty," Eames says, finally catching on. "Always getting into scraps with the headmaster, my classmates…"
"Was there, uh." Arthur coughs again and reddens slightly. "I mean, was your first, um-"
"I received my first handjob before my first kiss."
"Wow," Arthur breathes out. "So someone just-"
"Stuck his hand down my trousers halfway through a film." Eames guides Arthur's hand beneath the waistband of his boxers to demonstrate. "First time anyone had ever touched me down there."
Arthur kisses Eames' neck as he begins to stroke Eames' cock. "What was it like?"
"Clumsy. Fumbling. Best thing I'd ever felt in my entire life up to that point," Eames says as his cock begins harden. "I could scarcely believe it was happening."
"Did you return the favor?"
"Mmm, later. Far later than was probably polite," Eames says. "I was so overwhelmed at the time that I completely forgot until days later."
Arthur chuckles. "You found a way to make it up to him?"
"I did. He was most appreciative," Eames replies, breathing growing heavy and short with Arthur's warm hand and affectionate kisses.
"I'll bet." Arthur kisses deeply, thoroughly, as his hand works Eames with an expertise gained from their months together. Months, Eames thinks-how did that happen?
"Again?" Eames asks, not displeased when Arthur pulls back the covers and bends down to nose around Eames' groin.
"You've got a great dick," Arthur says simply, and without any self-consciousness at all. If it's only a line, it's a damn effective one.
Eames strokes Arthur's hair as he comes for the second time that day. He lets out a startled laugh when Arthur tickles his side.
"You sleepy now?" Arthur asks, propping his chin on Eames' lower belly.
"A bit," Eames replies. "Was this all part of a larger scheme?"
"Maybe." Arthur moves to stretch out on top of Eames, half-hard cock bumping against Eames' hip. "Did it work?"
"Can't tell yet," Eames says, honestly. "But aren't you tired?"
"Sort of, but I'm actually kind of looking forward to sleeping in for once. It's been a while." Arthur winks. "We can call out sick tomorrow. I got an in with the boss."
"I don't know about that," Eames says. "I heard he's a real slave-driver."
"Really? Because I heard he's funny and brilliant and banging the hottest guy in the office."
"While I can't argue with the last bit, I find the first two-"
"Right on target. Undeniable," Arthur says. In the yellow-orange streaks of light from the streetlamps coming through the blinds, his smile is completely disarming.
"Precisely," Eames says as he takes Arthur's cock in hand. Arthur laughs, and grins, and meets Eames' eyes fearlessly. In the end, it's Eames who looks away.
"Are there any photos of you at that age?" Arthur asks after they've cleaned up. He's lying on his side a few inches away, idly playing with Eames' chest hair. It tickles. "When you were in school, I mean."
"All photos of me under the age of twenty-one were mysteriously destroyed in a random act of arson-based violence about a decade ago," Eames says. "Along with every existing government record."
"Oh," Arthur says, and tries to cover his visible disappointment by adding, "I think I remember that from the background search."
"Searching for fresh fodder for a wank, hm?"
"Yep," Arthur deadpans. "In between seeing you every day, and fucking you every other one, I'd also like to jerk off to a photo of you in between."
Eames stretches his arms out, chest puffing. "Yes, as I expected. There's simply never enough of me to satisfy your desperate longing."
Arthur grins, but then grows serious again. "It's too bad. I would have liked to have seen it."
"Really?" Eames glances at Arthur, but he doesn't seem to be joking. "Why?"
"Because it's a part of who you are. Who you were, I mean." Arthur traces the bristly stubble along the edge of Eames' jaw. "I like finding out more about you. The man behind all the masks."
Why? Eames wants to ask again, but instead he says, "There's always the PASIV."
"You'd be up for that?"
"I've never tried this scenario specifically, but I don't see why it wouldn't be feasible."
Arthur smiles, bright and joyful. Eames feels a stirring within him-not raw animal lust, or even the high of reckless infatuation he's grown familiar with over the years-but something quieter, soft and warm. It's a feeling that's been coming on more and more often in the past few months, unbidden but not entirely unwelcome.
* * * * *
Eames opens his eyes to a classroom. There are desks, a chalkboard, and large gothic windows on either side, lending some architectural flare to the scene. It bears only the most passing resemblance to anything he might have seen growing up, but the idea is clear enough and in some ways he's glad for it. Recreating and reliving memories are easy ways to begin blurring the line between dreams and reality.
At the head of the classroom is Arthur, clad in spectacles, a tweed waistcoat and jacket with patches on the elbows. He's bent over the desk, pen scratching away as his brow furrows in concentration. He hasn't noticed Eames yet.
Eames holds up a mirror in his hand and watches his reflection shift easily enough, cheeks filling and smoothing, jaw softening. He allows his body to grow leaner but retains the more fully developed musculature he'd only reached in his early twenties; that and the lack of facial blemishes are an exercise of his artistic license.
Eames stands and approaches Arthur, who is still writing, reaching up to adjust the spectacles on his nose every few minutes. It isn't until Eames is right beside the desk that Arthur looks up.
"Eames," Arthur says. "Can I help you with something?"
Eames glides along the side of the desk, coming to rest near Arthur with a hip cocked. "I have a few questions, Professor King, if you've a moment."
Arthur puts down his pen. "Of course."
Eames takes a deep breath and feels himself begin to sink into character, the teenager he once was. If he'd met Arthur as a youth, he would have found him stunningly handsome: all boyish good looks grounded by a serious, intellectual air. He'd have been fascinated by Arthur's American-ness as well-those perfect white teeth, his sharp accent-nothing at all like the fat tourists he'd met before. Arthur would be exciting, exotic, a fantasy to wank to for weeks.
"I had a question about the lesson today," Eames says, watching Professor King's hands go still on the desk. He has long, elegant fingers, and Eames wonders what they'd taste like if he took one into his mouth. He wonders whether the professor would like that.
"About The Great Gatsby?"
"Yes. It's about what Daisy saw in Gatsby. She met him twice, in two very different circumstances," Eames says. "What was it that drew her in?"
"That's an intriguing question, Eames," Professor King says, voice thoughtful, not mocking like Eames had been half-worried about. "I suppose she probably found him compelling for the same reasons the narrator and readers find him compelling-in many ways, he's the embodiment of the American dream."
"Do you mean the idea that someone could become anything they want?" Eames says, inching closer to the professor and hoping he doesn't notice.
"Gatsby did whatever it took to achieve his life's ambitions," Professor King says, eyes huge and dark behind his glasses. "Most people are afraid to take the kind of risks he did, even if that means staying stuck in the rut they were born in forever."
Eames shifts, ostensibly to stretch his legs, and a thigh grazes against one of Professor King's. He quietly thrills when the professor doesn't move away. "And what about you, Professor? Are you afraid?"
The professor swallows, Adam's apple bobbing. Eames wants to lick and suck all around it. "I've got nothing to be scared of."
"No?" Eames lowers his eyes and peers up at the professor through his lashes.
"Mr. Eames," Professor King starts, but doesn't finish, voice faltering when Eames licks his lower lip.
Feeling reckless, Eames reaches out to take Professor King's spectacles off, careful not to allow his hands to come in contact with the professor's hair, his face. Eames gives the lenses a quick polish with the edge of his shirt and puts them on himself, blinking owlishly before the world comes back into focus.
Without the glasses, the professor looks young-young enough to pass as a student from a distance. He's so fit Eames feels his stomach turn over in arousal.
"Have you ever been in love, Professor?" Eames asks, touching the line of the professor's lapel, smoothing it down.
"I'm not sure that's an appropriate topic of conversation between teacher and student," Professor King replies, voice raspy. He hasn't moved, seems almost frozen in his seat.
"Would you ever do something like Gatsby did for Daisy?" Eames trails his fingertips up Professor King's neck, skin vulnerable and warm.
"I think I'd prefer someone who wants me the way I am." The professor catches his hand. Eames prepares to be pushed away, for everything to come crashing down around him, but instead the professor pulls him closer. "Wouldn't you?"
"Most people bore me," Eames says, fighting to keep his voice level. Aside from the hand Professor King still holds, they're not touching. His grip is firm, though, firmer than Eames expected. "I can't imagine wanting anyone for years and years."
Professor King smiles. "You're young yet. Give it time."
"Ugh." Eames rolls his eyes. "Everyone always says that, as if it's supposed to be some great truth. I don't need time-I know what I like."
The professor seems more amused by this outburst than anything. He's running his thumbs over Eames' knuckles now. "Do you?"
"I know what I want right now." Eames takes a step forward, one thigh sliding in between the professor's spread legs. "I don't know whether I'll want it tomorrow. I don't care if I do."
"And what if I don't care about what you want?" the professor asks. He's studying Eames calmly, as if he were in complete control of the situation. He's not, though-Eames can feel the hard dig of an erection against his thigh.
"Of course you care." Eames rolls his hips slowly against the professor's leg, sees the flicker of pure lust that crosses his face. "I always get what I want."
"That's funny." Professor King snakes a surprisingly strong arm around Eames' waist and drags him in, knocking the breath from him. "So do I."
It all proceeds quickly after that: the professor guiding Eames to his knees, easing his beautiful cock out of his wool trousers. It's heavy and hard, large enough to make Eames' jaw ache but he doesn't care, not with Professor King murmuring soft praise above him. He tries to touch himself but the professor stops him, tells him to stroke his bollocks instead, hold them so gently. Eames complies, and it's worth it to hear the sharp intake of the professor's breath, the way his thighs tremble on either side of Eames' head.
Eames comes first, without so much as a hand on his cock. He comes with Professor King's dick deep in his mouth, moans his way through orgasm and nearly chokes when that causes the professor to come. Professor King makes it up to him, though, when he bends Eames over the desk and fucks him surely, confidently. He lasts for what seems like forever, coaxing another orgasm from Eames before really starting to go hard.
Eames comes and comes, so many times it should ache. It's wonderful.
* * * * *
"Wow," Arthur says when they wake up.
"Good?" Eames asks. He sits up slowly, more disoriented at waking up in his older body (stiffness, aches, and pains) than he cares to admit.
Arthur gets up and kneels by Eames' chaise lounge. "Amazing." He takes Eames' jaw in hand and kisses him. "You're amazing."
* * * * *
They leave the office shortly thereafter. Eames takes out his car keys and starts to peel away when Arthur says, "Hey, do you want dinner? I was thinking about making some pasta back at mine."
Eames is in a good mood and hungry enough, so he agrees. They walk back to Arthur's flat together-only about a twenty minute walk, convenient-and Arthur sets the linguine to boil. He's using jarred sauce, and puts Eames to work grating the mozzarella, opening the Merlot.
They have pasta and salad at the dining table, which looks like it was ordered straight out of a furniture catalogue a week ago. It probably was, but the apartment's starting to accumulate more personality: a stack of mail on the counter, a few paintings on the wall. One looks to be an original Bacon.
They chat about weather, politics, and debate amicably about the possibility of remote dreamshare. Eames thinks that while everyone currently claiming to be able to invade dreams from afar is a quack, one day the technology will make it possible. Arthur, stubbornly and predictably, falls into the naysayers' camp, arguing that there are limits to everything.
At the end of the meal, Eames puts the dishes away in the stainless steel dishwasher while Arthur puzzles over the controls.
"I've never actually, uh, used this before," Arthur admits as he breaks the seal on a package of dish detergent.
"You've been hand-washing your dishes all these months?" Eames asks, because Arthur's sink is empty. He doesn't see a drying rack.
"I haven't-" Arthur coughs. "This is my first time using actual china and glasses since I've moved in." Eames watches in bemusement as Arthur opens a cabinet, which is thoroughly stocked with paper plates and plastic utensils. Such things shouldn't be charming.
After they've got the dishwasher up and running, Arthur asks, "Do you want to go to bed?"
Eames is loose-limbed and sleepy from the wine, but he's fairly sure he can muster a somewhat coordinated blowjob, or savor the weight of Arthur moving on top of him. He thinks he might enjoy that, lying back and waiting for Arthur to make him come however he'd like.
They disrobe and kiss, lazy, aimless, but Arthur declines to go further.
"Let's go to sleep," he says, guiding Eames' head to his own pillow.
Eames looks over at Arthur, uncertain. They're in bed together and they're not going to have sex?
"Thank you." Arthur's lying on his side of the bed, a respectful distance from Eames. "For earlier. It was a lot of fun."
"Yes," Eames says, but it sounds odd in his throat. He wonders if-but no, Arthur would tell him if he was bored already, wouldn't he?
Eames turns over onto his side and takes in the surroundings, listens to the sound of quiet breathing behind him.
Arthur clears his throat. "Will you…"
Eames looks back over his shoulder. It's dark in the room, difficult to see. "Yes?"
"Will you be here when I wake up?" Arthur's voice wavers slightly. "Because I'd-I'd like it if you were."
"I." Eames considers the possibility of staying here an entire night, defenseless and in unfamiliar territory. It makes his toes twitch with uneasiness, restlessness. "I'll try."
Eames doesn't sleep for a long time after that. From the sound of his breathing, Arthur doesn't either.
* * * * *
Eames dreams about one of his former marks.
Natural dreams are few and far between after so many years of Somnacin exposure, but they still occur every now and again for Eames.
It's thinking about his prior marks that's the true rarity. He notes both these facts vaguely as he moves through the dream, halfway lucid though not fully in control.
The mark is a woman who'd been in her early thirties when Eames knew her, rather plain but keenly intelligent. She'd been suspicious in the early days of their courtship, but like all his marks, had eventually fallen in love with the man he'd pretended to be. Eames created the persona especially for her, after all.
She discovered his true purpose shortly before he fled, pulling together all the pieces as she watched him pack. He dreams of that confrontation, her tear-stained face and the way she asked, "Who are you?"
"Does it matter, really?" He tried to be kind. "After this, I'll be someone else. And someone else, after him."
Nothing said made any difference in the end, of course. She shouted, she sobbed, she begged him to reconsider. Most of it has disappeared into the hazy past, but there's one thing that surfaces in the dream, perfectly articulated in her angry voice, "I bet you're nothing at all when you're not pretending to be someone else."
It was intended to hurt, but he hadn't been, not at the time. He'd been proud, in fact-what better sort of con man than the one that had no patterns, no habits, no flaws? Who more able to become someone else than a person who could disappear without a trace?
* * * * *
Eames opens his eyes to Arthur seated on the edge of the bed in his boxers. Arthur's watching him. "H'llo," Eames musters, after a moment.
"Morning," Arthur says, hushed. His expression is difficult to read. "You looked like you were dreaming."
"I was." Eames rubs the crust from his eyes.
"You still have natural dreams?"
"Rarely. Once every few months or so." Eames pauses; there's an unmistakable yearning in Arthur's eyes, now. "You don't?"
"Not since the first time I came into contact with Somnacin, almost a decade ago," Arthur says. "What's it like?"
"Confusing. I keep expecting to be able to take control, change things." Eames chuckles softly. "But nothing follows the rules I set out. Natural consequences don’t flow from actions the way I want them to."
Arthur puts a hand on Eames' stomach, bare where the covers have slipped off. "I didn't know you got confused."
Eames' brow furrows slightly as he tries to keep his abdominal muscles tight. "Of course I do."
"You always seem so certain of everything." Arthur traces the line of a tattoo, then stands. "You in the mood for eggs? I could scramble a couple while you hop in the shower and brush your teeth."
Eames sits up."I didn't bring a toothbrush."
"I found an extra in the cabinet and left it on the sink," Arthur says. "There are also clean towels and soap-use whatever you want."
The toothbrush is, as promised, set out next to an unopened package of toothpaste. The toothbrush is a rather pleasant shade of red and both happen to be from Eames' usual brands. He didn't think they were popular in the States, but maybe he was wrong about that.
He comes out of the shower to the smell of burning and Arthur frantically dowsing the egg pan in milk. The end result is mostly edible when Eames covers it in ketchup and gulps it down with coffee.
"Is something caught in my teeth?" Eames asks when he catches Arthur watching him, his own plate of eggs largely untouched.
"No, it's just-" Arthur looks away and then back again, almost shyly. "You're still here."
Onto Chapter 3: The Lounge