Fic: There's got to be a morning after - Chapter 7: Dude Looks Like a Lady
There's got to be a morning after
Chapter 7: Dude Looks Like a Lady
Master post of all chapters here.
Wordcount: 15,000
Chapter 7: Dude Looks Like a Lady
"What hotel are we heading to?" Arthur asks as they board their flight to Naples International Airport.
"No hotel," Eames replies. "I have a flat."
Arthur stiffens in surprise beside him. They've never visited each others' homes before; through tacit agreement, they'd previously confined their liaisons to the relative neutrality of hotels. "Is there a spare room where I can work?"
Eames slides into the window seat and thinks. "There's a closet."
"Is there internet?"
"Well, it's Italy, therefore dubious at best."
Arthur shrugs. "I brought my own connection. Just thought I'd check."
"It's not a five diamond accommodation, but the coffee is excellent and the view of Mount Vesuvius most impressive. I do hope my landlady hasn't been shot by the Mafia in the past year, though."
"Is assassination a particular concern for her?"
"She's a nosy type. Informer for someone, though I'm not certain who since the government is nearly as corrupt as the Mafia. I try to avoid becoming too involved in local politics."
"And she decided to take you on as a tenant?"
"Are you suggesting that someone might object to my moral character?" Eames asks haughtily, and Arthur chuckles. "I arranged the flat a couple of years back while waiting out a particularly well-defended bounty. I was posing as an itinerant art instructor at the time."
"Really."
"Yes, really. Taught a few watercolor classes and so forth." Eames responds airily. "Quite relaxing."
"Let me guess: you painted some still-lifes and landscapes?"
"I was more interested in portraiture and nudes," Eames says. "I had several classes of very willing models."
"I'll bet." Arthur smiles at the flight attendant who walks down their aisle, checking on everyone's seatbelts and tray tables. Eames takes out an issue of Classic Cars to read and Arthur scrolls through email on his phone.
After the flight attendant is gone, Arthur's hand comes to rest by Eames' leg, pinky brushing against Eames' thigh. Neither of them says a word about it.
* * * * *
The electricity works and the water runs in Eames' flat, which he takes as evidence of his landlady's continued tenacious hold on life. There's a solid layer of dust coating every surface of the place, but otherwise it's exactly as he remembers it: cramped, dingy, and plastered in Ducati posters.
"Were motorcycles part of your cover, too?" Arthur asks as he takes in the main living area, which doubles as kitchen and dining room.
"The previous tenant was a young man rather obsessed with them," Eames replies. "He was run off the road by a speeding motorcyclist, hit his head on a rock and died instantly."
"And you didn't feel any need to redecorate?"
"Well, I do appreciate a spot of irony," Eames says, shrugging.
"Irony or foreshadowing?" Arthur replies, eying a photograph of a mostly naked woman bent over a leather seat.
Eames snorts out a laugh. "Both, I suppose. You can leave your things in the bedroom."
"Are you offering to take the couch?" Arthur asks as they deposit their bags on the bedroom floor.
"Not in a trillion years," Eames replies. "In fact, I expect to be generously compensated in exchange for room and board."
"I always need to read the fine print with you."
"If anyone should be wary of fine print in this scenario, it's me," Eames says, feeling his mood abruptly sour.
"Sudheer's out of the picture." Arthur's expression grows wary. "I told you-"
"Because your word has been unimpeachable in the past few months."
"This from a con man?"
"I've never tried to con you."
Arthur snorts. "That may be the least believable lie you've ever told me."
"You can take the first shower," Eames says as he spins on his heel and walks away. "I should check my mail."
* * * * *
Later, Eames steps out of the bedroom and sees that Arthur's set up a makeshift desk and chair jammed in the closet. Resourceful, clever bastard. "Is the internet working?"
"It's an unsecured connection that's slower than dialup," Arthur replies, already typing away behind his laptop.
"I'll take that as a no."
"You do realize there's a price on your head in this city," Arthur says, only glancing up briefly from his screen. "Dead or alive?"
"All that nonsense is under a different alias." Eames waves the concern away. At Arthur's skeptical eyebrow, he adds, "It's been eons and I appeared quite different then, I assure you. Blue hair in a ponytail, piercings, purple contacts."
That last sentence catches Arthur's attention. "You were pierced?"
"Briefly. I couldn’t wait to be rid of them-the damn things were infected more often than not," Eames says, with no fondness. "Why-"
There's a rap on the door, “Ehilà, c’è qualcuno? Robin, è la signora Pezzella. Che s’i là dentro?”
Arthur's on his feet in an instant, shutting the closet (and his laptop) with barely a sound. Eames approaches the entrance of the flat, wary, and checks through the peephole. Through the glass, he can see an elderly Italian woman bearing food in the hallway.
Eames gestures to indicate no danger and mouths, "I know her." He opens the door.
"Robin, sei tu!" Signora Pezzella squeals as she barrels through the doorway, holding her large, foil-covered tray aloft. "Avevo pensat’ di ave’ visto nu fantasma, ma eccoti ca!"
"Signora Pezzella," Eames says as he accepts the tray. “È passato troppo tempo."
"Ndove s’i stat’?" she demands, speaking in breathless, rapid-fire Italian. "Perché non hai chiamato né scritto? S’i stata preoccupatissima per te, pensav’ fossi annegato nel fiume o peggio."
"Sono dovuto andare via all’improvviso, signora," he replies. "Mi hanno chiamato dal lavoro e sono dovuto ripartire prima di poter salutare. Sono in viaggio sin dall’ultima volta che abbiamo parlato."
"Viaggiando? Ci avrei dovuto pensare. Sei sempre stato un vagabondo, mai contento di dove sei. Ma che ci stai facendo ca? Un uomo della tua età dovrebbe essere a casa dalla moglie, tenendo un bambino a cavalluccio," she scolds. "Almeno s’i fidanzat’ adesso, sì?"
"Come avrei potuto sposarmi quando ho già trovato la donna più bella del mondo?” Eames sinks to one knee and presses a kiss to the back of signora Pezzella's hand to great effect. "E lei mi rifiuta?"
"Oh, Robin." She giggles as she pushes his shoulder, seeming almost girlish in her delight despite graying hair and deep wrinkles. "Quali crudeli, dolci bugie che dici. Non ci posso parlare con te."
He stands and allows her to tug her hand away, still giggling. "Dico solo ciò che vedo, madam."
"Che mascalzone," she says, aflutter. "Ma quanto s’i magro! Magari avevo ragione ad aver pensat’ di aver visto un fantasma. Cosa stai mangiando ultimamente? Scommetto che non è buon cibo."
"Niente di ottimo come lo fa lei, signora," Eames says dutifully.
"Bé, rimedierà la mia lasagna. Mai più quel terribile pollo bollito che chiami pasto. Se metti quella teglia nel forno dovrebbe scaldarsi in qualche minuto. E-" she stops, seeming to notice Arthur in the room for the first time. She gives him a brief once-over, then a second, more thorough once-over. "E chist chi è?"
"Un mio amico, Constantine," Eames replies after Arthur simply stares at them both blankly. Italian is apparently not one of Arthur's languages.
"Ah," she says, and then in halting English, "You American?"
"Yeah, I'm American," Arthur says, seeming relieved to hear something he finally understands. "Hello."
Signora Pezzella turns back to Eames. "Anche lui scapolo, il tuo amico?"
"Sì," Eames says, already amused by where this is heading.
"Tengo una nipote. Molto carina. Non troppo intelligente-sta sempre a ficcarsi nei guai-ma è tutt’acqua passata." She eyes Arthur critically. "Uno come lui sembra adatto a lei."
“È molto gentile da parte sua," Eames says, as demurely as he can manage. "Ma-"
"O magari non è interessato a matrimonio e figli?" she muses, and gives Eames a pointed look. "Un uomo della tua età è troppo vecchio per continuare ad invischiarsi in questo tipo di affari."
"La ringrazio per la sua preoccupazione," Eames says, an edge of irritation creeping in. "E la ringrazio per la lasagna. Sfortunatamente, il mio amico è molto stanco per il volo."
"Mio bel Robin senza nido." She pinches his cheek, rather more forcefully than he expects. "Non devi portare caos qui a casa. Hai capito?"
"Certo, Signora."
"Bene." She pats his cheek once before withdrawing, giving Arthur a brief nod as she does.
After she leaves, Arthur says, "What'd she say about me?"
"She offered to set you up with a niece of hers. I declined."
Arthur scrutinizes Eames' face. "That's all she said?"
"The rest is unimportant," Eames says. "Oh, and she made lasagna."
"I gathered that much," Arthur says, peeling up the edge of the foil. "It looks pretty good."
"From what I recall, her cooking is spectacular," Eames says, inhaling a lovely gust of meaty flavor. "You may have some, I suppose."
"Your enthusiasm for sharing is overwhelming," Arthur says dryly, but it certainly doesn't stop him from digging out a giant piece.
They're both devouring pasta in contented quiet when Arthur says, "Eames, are you pissed at me? Because it seems like you're pissed at me."
"Perhaps I'm simply wondering whether a deranged man will appear in my home unannounced," Eames replies and it is possible, probable, that he's still a bit sore.
"I told Sudheer to get lost. You heard the conversation." Arthur sighs and rubs his forehead. "I already apologized for everything and I'm not sure what else-"
"No, you didn't."
"What?"
"You haven't apologized," Eames says. "Your exact words were, 'I didn't do it for you.'"
"I-" Arthur seems on the verge of arguing, then visibly deflates. "You're right. I'm sorry for being kind of an ass after-after everything happened. I was a little... raw."
"More than 'kind of an ass,' I'd say," Eames replies, somewhat pettily.
"I've been a giant ass," Arthur corrects. "Now I'm going to ask: is there anything I can do to make it up to you?"
"I'm honestly not sure," Eames says. "This is a bit of a new situation for me. Usually I'm the one angering people left and right."
"What did you do to patch things up?"
"Never cared enough to do anything, really." Eames shrugs. "I usually leave the country and that resolves the drama, one way or another."
Arthur puts down his fork and dabs at his mouth. He folds his napkin and sets it down on the table. "I don't want to disappear into the night. I can't control what you do, but I hope-well, I hope that if you decide to disappear, you'll give me a little notice before you do. So maybe we can find a way to-work it out."
"I'll take that under advisement," Eames says. He's unhappy to realize that what he really means is: I don't want to leave, either.
* * * * *
That evening, as they're both preparing for bed, Arthur says, "I'm gonna take a shower. Do you want to fuck after or should I grab a pillow for the couch?"
The directness of the question startles Eames, though he supposes that by now it shouldn't. Arthur: painfully direct when he's not being infuriatingly evasive. "I could do with a shag."
Arthur showers and they have sex. It starts as a business-like exchange of blowjobs, Eames sucking Arthur off, fast and efficient. Arthur, however, chooses to linger over his reciprocal head-moving away from Eames' cock to suckle at his balls, one finger stroking behind them and teasing at the very edge of Eames' hole. It drives Eames utterly mad, and the only sensible thing to do would be to tell Arthur to knock it off.
Instead, Eames makes the mistake of meeting Arthur's eyes and comes almost immediately. He slinks out of bed to brush his teeth and returns to Arthur star-fished across the bed, fast asleep.
With an exasperated grunt, Eames gets onto the bed and shoulders Arthur's wayward limbs aside. The linens and mattress are a bit musty, but all Eames can smell as he drifts off is Arthur: clean, with a hint of cologne.
* * * * *
The next morning, Eames wakes up to the noisy sputter of the shower running. He squints at the window, where the sun has not yet risen, and then at the clock, which reads twelve. After a solid minute of disorientation, he recalls the clock has been broken for ages.
The water stops and Arthur steps out. "Morning," he says.
"Why are you awake?" Eames asks. "Why am I?"
"Went for a run. Tried not to wake you, but this apartment apparently has the loudest plumbing known to man," Arthur replies. "Sorry about that."
"I'm going back to sleep," Eames announces as he rolls his face into the pillow. "Don't eat all the lasagna as that will be my lunch. And probably my dinner."
"You want me to pick something up on the way back?" Arthur asks. "I'm going shopping. You could come with."
"I was married to a woman for six years," Eames mumbles. "I have lost untold hours to the altar of shopping. Never again."
"I wouldn't make you hold my purse."
Eames cracks open one eye. "Liar."
Arthur smiles. "Do you want to meet up for dinner?"
"Alright. Can't run too late, as I'm seeing a mate of mine tonight," Eames says in between yawns. "You're welcome to join, but I have to warn you that it'll involve drinking, carousing, and strippers. The female kind."
Arthur shrugs. "I could go for that."
Eames opens both eyes. "What?"
Arthur raises an eyebrow. "You think I don't like naked women?"
"Well, the cock sucking and ass fucking always gave me that distinct impression, yes."
"I have a general interest in fucking regardless of plumbing."
"As do I," Eames replies. "It's just that I've never observed you so much as glance at a woman."
Arthur shrugs and says, matter-of-factly, "It's because I'm too busy looking at you."
"Hmph, well." Eames' chest puffs up. "That's certainly understandable."
Arthur chuckles as he approaches the bed and touches Eames' calf, where the sheets have slipped off. "Go back to sleep. I'll be back before six."
* * * * *
Eames wakes up later, when it's actually noon. He reheats some lasagna, sorts his mail (one car advertisement for him and a large number of motorcycle catalogs addressed to the previous tenant), and deletes an email he received from Chulda. Then he proceeds to dust, sweep, and clean the flat from top to bottom.
When Arthur returns, it's with approximately fifty shopping bags in tow and a new haircut.
"You changed your hair," Eames says as Arthur dumps everything onto the couch.
"Yeah, my roots were going to show soon," Arthur replies absently as he begins removing clothing, shoes, and leather accessories from the bags. Before Eames can fully parse that statement, Arthur says, "Did you clean up? I'm guessing you don't want me to leave all my stuff here, huh?"
"Not particularly, no."
"I'll bring this to the bedroom and try not to make too much of a mess," Arthur gathers all his things, in relatively good humor. "I got a new suit, too. Off the rack so the fit's going to be mediocre until I take it to my tailor, but I want to see how it wears tonight."
Eames watches Arthur carry all his purchases into the bedroom, then begins gathering up all the empty shopping bags. He's consolidating them into a manageable pile when Arthur reappears, clad in a hunter green suit. It doesn't fit to Arthur's usual exacting standards, but it's still pretty good-slim-cut, flattering. The checked pattern would look ridiculous on any other person in the world; it gives Arthur a distinctly cosmopolitan and debonair air.
"Where are we going for dinner?" Arthur asks, adjusting his sleeve.
"Hole in the wall round the corner." Eames carries several shopping bags to the trash can, circumventing the impulse to leap on Arthur and tear his clothes off. "Good chicken there."
"You're going to-"
Eames looks over his shoulder in time to catch the oddest expression on Arthur's face as Eames bins the shopping bags. It's there and gone, too quickly for Eames to decipher. "Arthur?"
Arthur blinks, seeming to catch himself, and returns to adjusting his sleeve even though it's perfect at this point. "Nothing."
"Am I missing something here?" Eames asks. "Something that's going to rear up and bite me in the arse later on?"
Arthur finally releases his sleeve and says, "Nevermind. It's not a big deal. It's hard to break some old habits, is all."
He walks into the bedroom and that should be the end of the conversation. Except, for a reason Eames isn't fully comfortable admitting to himself, he follows Arthur and says, "Have I ever told you how incredibly unattractive I find your cryptic half-answers to be?"
Arthur looks over from where he's seated on the edge of the bed, startled. "What?"
"I invite you into my flat," Eames says. "Now you're here and it's still like playing riddles with a bloody Sphinx."
Arthur doesn't argue. He looks down at his palms and says, "Yeah, I was wondering about that. You inviting me here, I mean."
"I could have left and I didn't," Eames says, much aggrieved as he walks over to the small window on the far wall. It overlooks a narrow alley and a pile of garbage on the street. "For god's sake, I might as well have dueled Sudheer for your hand."
Arthur lets out an unexpected laugh. "Sudheer said you were developing feelings for me and that you were very resentful of them. I told him he was crazy."
"He is crazy," Eames says, running a finger down the edge of the glass. "An utter lunatic."
Arthur hums, but voices no disagreement. After a pause, he says, "I'm not used to throwing out the shopping bags."
Eames twists round to look at him. "Did you want to keep them?"
"Not especially, no." Arthur stares at the wall in front of him. "Habit, like I said. When I was growing up, we always kept them because you never knew when you might need a nice bag to camouflage something in. Or to make people think you were--better off than you were."
Eames studies Arthur in his lovely suit and trimmed, apparently dyed hair. "You've never said much about how you grew up."
"Most people aren't really interested," Arthur glances at Eames, almost hesitantly. "And now you know about-well. It's a security risk if I give too many details that could lead to a real identity leaking out."
"Is protecting Aiden why you dye your hair?"
"Yeah. By now it's practically habit." Arthur stands. "It's been-years. Maybe a decade."
"I'm trying to imagine you as a redhead or a blond," Eames says. "Please don't tell me you're a blond. I'll be gravely disappointed."
"It's gray." At Eames' disbelieving expressions, Arthur chuckles. "I-we--started getting gray hairs when we were five and were completely gray by age fifteen. Weird genetic quirk from my mother."
"My perception of you has been flipped to an entirely new axis," Eames informs Arthur, cocking his head to one side and squinting. "Perhaps that's why your face hasn't aged at all since you were fifteen. Your hair took it all."
"Tell that to my wrinkles and liver spots," Arthur says, smile a little sad. "We're both getting older, Eames. Can't stop that."
"I'm the only one allowed to be maudlin in advance of my birthday," Eames says briskly. "Really, now. This is hardly the proper mood for carousing and strippers."
"Sorry." Arthur walks over to Eames and straightens the collar of his shirt, smooths the shoulders. "If it helps, I do have some good news. My test results came back clean."
"That is good news," Eames replies. "Bully for us both and our clean bills of health."
Arthur lays a careful kiss on Eames' lips. He seems inclined to reach for more when the distinct rumbling of Eames' stomach interrupts.
"Dinner, strippers, then sex," Eames says, taking a step back before he finds himself in a uselessly miserable limbo between arousal and starvation.
"Hell of a night you have planned, Mr. Eames," Arthur says, the edges of his mouth curved faintly upward.
* * * * *
Federico is wiry and whippet-thin in defiance of the Mediterranean diet and genetics (all his paternal relatives are quite rotund, which leads to a few obvious questions about the family tree). He wears his hair long, peeking slyly out from under his cap, which is so uber-fashionable in Naples it's practically passé.
"Robin, my friend!" Federico exclaims as he drags Eames into a hug with his gangly limbs. "It is good to see you. But do you not know that there's a price on your head?"
"That's all in the past now," Eames says, trying to extricate himself while avoiding the ash dangling from Federico's lit cigarette.
"I don't know about that," Federico says. "It's not only the debt you ran out on-it's also that you slept with Aquila's wife."
"How was I to know she was his wife? She was half his age--I thought she had to be his daughter."
"Like his daughter would have been so much better. What if you put a baby in her?"
"No chance of that," Eames says easily.
"You dog. Signora Aquila likes it in the behind? Or did she get on her knees for you?"
"A gentleman never tells," Eames replies primly, fond memories of her enthusiastic blowjob returning. She'd done this swirling motion with her tongue--
"I don't see any gentlemen here," Federico says, making a big show of looking around. "Do you?"
At that moment, Arthur makes his way out of the restaurant to join them.
"This is Constantine," Eames says. "He's staying at my flat for a while. Constantine, Federico. Mate of mine from a few years back."
"Hello," Federico says, cheerfully. "How do you like sleeping in a dead man's place?"
"It's great," Arthur says without missing a beat. "I love being constantly reminded of my mortality."
"Funny guy, eh?" Federico laughs good-naturedly. "Do you like motorcycles, Constantine? Robin has no appreciation."
"The only civilized way to drive is in a luxury vehicle," Eames interjects. "A motorcycle is a bicycle with a petrol tank and a death wish."
"Robin does not understand." Federico puts a conspiratorial arm around Arthur's shoulder. "A Ducati is like a beautiful woman: deadly, but what a way to go, eh?"
"I'm going to have to side with Robin on this one," Arthur says with a straight face.
"Psh, you two," Federico says, releasing Arthur. "You do not know how to live."
"We do know how to avoid dying, however," Eames says.
"But life is more than not-dying, yes?" Federico says as he begins to walk. "It is singing and dancing and passionate love-making."
"I believe you've mistaken me for some other nationality," Eames says as they walk into a coffee bar. "The English do none of those things, and certainly not with passion."
"And Americans?"
Arthur shrugs. "We've got no problems with singing, dancing, or passionate fucking."
"You stand alone, Robin." Federico chortles and orders them a round of espressos. "Have the best coffee in Italy and then you can tell me how to live a life with no life in it."
"Best coffee in Italy?" Arthur says. "Bold claim."
"Drink and you cannot disagree." Federico offers Eames a cigarette. "Smoke?"
"No, thank you. I quit a few months back."
"Clean living, eh?" Federico nods as he lights a new cigarette of his own. "I thought you looked different."
"Perhaps it's the lack of blue hair?" Eames replies dryly.
"No, it's this." Federico reaches out to prod at Eames' cheek. "I don't remember these wrinkles from before."
"Fuck off," Eames says, slapping Federico's hand away.
"I've had better coffee," Arthur comments as he puts down his empty espresso cup. "Outside Italy, even."
Federico rounds on Arthur, eyes wide and solemn. "You are a man with no working tongue. The best coffee in the world is in Italy. Right here."
Arthur shrugs and begins walking towards the exit. Federico stares after him in bemusement, then turns to Eames. "Your American is a man of few words and bad taste except in suits."
"He does know how to wear a suit," Eames agrees as he follows Federico out.
Their second stop is a dive bar with one Euro shots of the most disgusting swill on the planet. "For luck," Federico declares as he slams his shot down.
Arthur buys them a second round and Eames the third, because by then it doesn't taste nearly as horrible.
Federico, who is already a touch glassy-eyed, leans against the table and says, "Have you heard about inception?"
Arthur's predictably stone-faced while Eames decides to humor Federico. He's a local player without the skill or ambition to climb into anything bigger-harmless at the end of the day. "Inception," Eames says, drawing out the syllables. "What is that?"
"Dreamshare," Federico says earnestly. "It's breaking into heads and stealing secrets. Or putting them there."
"Sounds dicey," Eames says. "You're into this now?"
"No, no. You have to let people into your mind." Federico taps his temple. "Too many valuable things up here for me to share dreams." Arthur lets out a laugh he barely manages to conceal behind a cough. Federico continues, oblivious. "But it is good to hear things, keep your ears open."
"Very true," Eames replies. "What have you heard?"
"They say a team was hired to make a man believe he's a chicken."
"A," Eames stops and rewinds what he just heard to make sure he's understanding correctly. "Wait, what?"
"A chicken," Federico replies. "The bird. Like a duck that makes sounds like-"
"No, we know what a chicken is," Arthur interrupts. "What is-why would anyone do that?"
"A woman, of course!" Federico exclaims, as if it were patently obvious. "What other motives are there?"
"Fear of death," Eames suggests. "Greed, ambition-"
"Robin, Robin, Robin," Federico says. "If you look at the beginning of any story, you will see that the only reason a man gets out of bed in the morning is to get back into it with someone he desires."
"Right," Arthur says, slowly. "Then the woman that started this inception wanted to have sex with a chicken?"
"No, no! The client wants to have sex with a woman, but she is married, see? He turns her husband into an insane chicken man and takes her."
Arthur stares at Federico, clearly searching for a punchline. "... and that is what they say?"
"Yes." Federico nods. "Unbelievable, no?"
"It is at that," Eames says, not risking a glance at Arthur for fear of collapsing into helpless laughter.
After a last round of shots, Federico leads them to a cramped strip bar, with worn carpeting (both literal and figurative) perfumed with the odor of smoke and garlic.
"It is not nice or clean, and it does not have the most beautiful girls," Federico says with expertise born from years of experience, "but it has variety. Americans like variety, yes?"
Arthur says, "Sure, who doesn't?"
Variety they get. A parade of ages, races and, at least in two cases, genitalia, dance on stage before them. The strippers are all bored and jaded, going through the motions of dances they've done a million times before.
Arthur, however, inspires a fair amount of interest-gazes lingering on his expensive suit and the watch peeking out of his sleeve. There's a brief struggle amongst the dancers over who gets to claim him before three of the more attractive ones make their way over.
"Ciao, ragazzi," the one with clear seniority and the largest breasts says. "Come state stasera?"
"Benissimo adesso che si sono unite a noi delle meravigliose ragazze," Federico replies, grinning. "E voi?"
"Molto bene," the leader replies, assessing eyes flicking over Eames and Arthur. "Da dove venite?"
"Napoli, Inghilterra e America," Federico says, pointing at himself, Eames, and Arthur in turn.
"You come a long way to see us," the youngest stripper says in heavily accented English. She has dark hair and a smile that's shark-like underneath its coyness. The leader throws her a disapproving look, but the youngest only stares more intensely at Arthur, refusing to back down.
"How about lap dances for everyone?" Arthur says. Only the youngest seems to understand what he's saying, but all of the strippers register the motion of reaching for a wallet.
There's another brief struggle over which dancer will get whose lap-Arthur's being the grand prize. The youngest circumvents the process by climbing on him first-to the leader's great displeasure. Federico reaches for the leader, who goes to him reluctantly. Eames ends up with the third stripper, the only blonde, who is clearly disappointed by this state of affairs.
It's a perfectly acceptable lap dance-Eames is never one to object to a naked woman gyrating on top of him-but he and the blonde register their mutual indifference early on. He's never been much interested in blondes and she clearly thinks he hasn't the means or temperament to spend on her.
Federico's lap dance-by the leader of the trio-ends earliest. Despite his entreaties for a few more minutes, she steps away from him with a cool smile and refuses to continue dancing without further payment.
Arthur's lap dance, however, is marked by pleasant conversation in stilted English and brief bursts of giggling. Eames raises an eyebrow as the youngest rubs her breasts against Arthur's face, then bends down to catch his lips in an open-mouthed kiss.
"Your friend is popular," Federico says to Eames, sounding impressed and envious.
The other strippers watch for a few minutes before eventually getting fed up. The leader says something sharp to the youngest that Eames can't quite hear, and she reluctantly disentangles herself.
Before the youngest goes, she says to Arthur, "You are handsome. I want to know you better."
At Arthur's dazed expression, Eames leans in to translate. "She said she'd fuck you for free." Arthur blinks; he's hard in his trousers.
"È abbastanza," the leader snaps, grabbing the youngest by the wrist.
"I finish work in half hour," the youngest calls out to Arthur as she's dragged away. "I love America. I love to see America one day."
"It was nice to meet you," Arthur says as the strippers depart.
"Let's go to a real bar," Federico says, crabby over the lack of attention directed his way. "The drinks here taste like piss."
"Do you want to wait for your new friend?" Eames asks Arthur.
"Nah," Arthur stands and adjusts himself, not at all subtly. "Let's get out of here."
They make their way into another bar, this one crammed with football paraphernalia. Federico orders them 'the strongest drinks in Naples'.
Arthur, in a pedantic mood, tries to debate this, arguing that if he made gin in a bathtub that would technically have a higher alcohol content than any commercial beverage. Federico, who is slurring and completely in the barrel at this point, swears and makes pejorative remarks about Arthur's mother. Luckily, it's in Italian.
"I think we've had enough for one night," Eames says, interrupting Arthur's oddly detailed description of how to make moonshine. "Federico, it's been a dubious pleasure, as always. Now go home."
"Get a new mouth, Constantine, since yours does not work. Robin, you are a pale and useless English bastard," Federico says as he seizes Eames in a hug and totters off.
"I think I'm drunk," Arthur comments as they wander out of the bar. He nearly trips over a pile of trash on the sidewalk.
"Steady on," Eames says, grasping Arthur by the arm. "And yes. You are."
"Are you drunk?" Arthur asks as they stumble down the street together.
"I can't feel my face," Eames says, thoughtful. "That probably means yes."
"You have a fucking gorgeous face, and I don't mean just your lips," Arthur burbles. "Did you see how Lucia rubbed her tits all over mine?"
"Who?"
"Lucia. The stripper that gave me a lap dance."
"Gave you some serious wood, more like," Eames says, and laughs at his own drunken wit. "You want to go back and look for her? I bet she'd fuck you all the way to America."
"I've already got someone who can fuck me all the way to America," Arthur says, grabbing at Eames' cock through his trousers.
"True enough," Eames says, amicably. He congratulates himself on a successful navigation back home when they round the corner and he recognizes the buildings.
They stumble into the flat and are on each other as soon as the door closes.
"Can you get hard enough to fuck me?" Eames asks, pawing at Arthur's groin through his trousers as they trip into the bedroom.
"Maybe. I dunno." Arthur sits heavily on the bed and beckons Eames into his lap. "Rub your tits all over my face."
"The fucking might be free, but I do charge for lap dances," Eames says, straddling Arthur's thighs. "And these are pectoral muscles. Firm, manly-"
"You have the best perky nipples," Arthur mumbles as he nuzzles one and pinches the other. "Fucking-perfect size and shape and color."
"What are you, some kind of nipple connoisseur?" Eames asks, swaying forward against Arthur. "Do you have charts and photos and radius spreadsheets?"
Arthur falls back on the bed and Eames goes with him, chest burying Arthur's face. "Hell yeah. I love how hairy your tits are."
"Ugh," Eames says as Arthur attempts to motorboat him. "This is not-I'm not performing for you. This is not me rubbing my tits all over your face."
"Too late," Arthur rebuts with a bite of Eames' right nipple. "I'm pretty hard now. You wanna ride my dick like this?"
"No," Eames says. At least, that's what he says in his head. What comes out of his mouth is, "Yeah, okay."
Eames has to crawl off Arthur to reach for the condom and lube on the nightstand. Arthur takes the moment to claw off his trousers and briefs, then grabs at Eames' ass unhelpfully.
"Arthur," Eames says as he struggles to undo his belt with Arthur kneading his ass cheek. "I can't-"
"Huh?" Arthur says, muzzy, and lets go.
By the time Eames is slicked and ready, Arthur is peering at Eames from under drowsy eyelids. "Hey," he says, squeezing Eames' thigh.
"Hullo," Eames replies, balancing on top of Arthur's hips.
"Come here," Arthur says, tugging Eames down to rest flush against his chest. He kisses Eames, sleepy and inquisitive. "Can we do it like this?"
Eames runs a thumb along Arthur's hairline and imagines he can see the faintest trace of silver. "I don't think your dick will stay in."
"Hm," Arthur says, wrapping his arms around Eames' chest, unbothered. "I like this."
Eames kisses Arthur's nose, the edge of his jaw, his right cheekbone. "I noticed."
Arthur captures one of Eames' hands in his and brings it down to wrap around both their cocks. He begins to jerk at a leisurely pace and doesn't let go. "Like this."
Eames rests his forehead against Arthur's and releases a small sigh. "Like this."
* * * * *
Eames wakes up half on top of Arthur, face buried in his armpit. Eames moves back, uneasy, and winces when it pulls at the dried come in his pubic and chest hair.
Arthur cracks a bleary eye open. "Awake?"
"Unfortunately," Eames says. His head isn't pounding, which is no small relief, but his body aches vaguely everywhere. Bloody hangovers. "Shouldn't you be out jogging by now?"
Arthur groans and closes his eyes again. "I drank too much."
"Hell of a night," Eames replies, preparing to drift back to sleep. Heavenly, wonderful, welcoming sleep.
Which is cut short by the loud and annoying ring of one of Arthur's million mobiles.
"Arthur," Eames says after the phone rings for a solid minute and Arthur makes no move to silence it. "Arthur."
Incredibly, it seems that Arthur has fallen back asleep, mouth ajar. The phone continues to ring.
Eames nudges Arthur once, then again more forcefully. "What?" Arthur says, rousing.
"Your mobile is ringing."
"It'll stop eventually." Arthur slides closer to Eames with a suspicious gleam in his eye. "Do you want to go for a jog?"
"I am extremely hungover. What I want is to lay as still as possible for as long as possible."
"When you're hungover is the best time to jog," Arthur says, moving ever closer. "You'll feel great after."
"I find that highly unlikely," Eames says, closing both eyes resolutely and turning to face the wall.
Arthur sidles up to Eames' back and murmurs, "I'll jerk you off in the shower and rim you after."
This is how Eames finds himself jogging whilst hungover. It is worse than regular jogging, worse than any other exercise he's voluntarily subjected himself to. Arthur bounces nimbly from foot to foot in a seemingly great mood. The tosser.
"That was the worst thing I have ever experienced," Eames says plaintively while Arthur soaps him up in the shower. "Let's never do that again."
"But I like you like this," Arthur says, laying kisses along the back of Eames' neck. "The way you taste and smell."
"Like what?" Eames asks, craning his neck to one side to encourage Arthur to continue.
"After exercising you smell like you, magnified," Arthur replies. "Masculine. Musky. Hot."
Arthur's ploy is completely transparent, but sadly, it does not make it any less effective. "Well, maybe a slow jog isn't the worst activity," Eames says, grudgingly, as Arthur wraps a hand around his cock. "No more whilst hungover, though."
"Sure," Arthur agrees, easily enough. "No more while hungover."
Arthur treats Eames to a leisurely wank and cleans him thoroughly after. The shower's too small for two grown man to linger. Eames dries off and dozes in bed while Arthur applies approximately six million grooming products and eventually joins him.
The wait is worth it; Arthur rims Eames until his toes curl, and then fucks him until he comes again.
Afterwards, Eames sprawls across the sheets and watches sleepily as Arthur gets dressed.
"Back to work?" Eames asks, scratching his chest.
"Yeah," Arthur says, voice low and sated. "You gonna sleep a while?"
"As long as I possibly can," Eames says, pulling the covers up.
Arthur brushes Eames' toes through the sheets as he passes. "Sweet dreams."
* * * * *
"Why do we keep returning here?" Eames asks Malaya, who stands across the widening brook at the center of the dreary gray landscape. "I haven't been back in ages."
Malaya glances over her shoulder at the moldering old mansion in the distance and shrugs. "You'd know better than me. I only visited the once."
"When my father died." Eames spits on the ground. "You scandalized my mother."
"You loved it."
"I did. The prospect of our title and estate going to some dirty foreigner gave her genteel heart palpitations."
"Does she know we divorced?"
"No idea. It's not as if we talk." Eames pauses. "I suppose she'd hate Chulda as well."
Malaya makes a thoughtful sound and takes a step into the brook. "Join me, will you?"
"What, in getting our shoes wet?" Eames asks, even as he complies.
When he steps into the water, they both sink into it, down beneath the surface. They continue traveling downwards, the brook widening into an ocean, vast and speckled with sunlight from above. They eventually land on an exuberantly colorful coral reef, schools of books flapping around them. It reminds Eames of a place he hasn't experienced in years-a place that has apparently transplanted itself into his subconscious.
"I remember that tuxedo," Eames says, shaking away the memories and focusing on Malaya once more. "You were wearing it and a ridiculous false mustache the first time we met."
"It was the first time you saw me," she corrects. "We didn't meet till later."
"That's right. No one else seemed to notice except for me-I couldn't understand it. How could they not see the beautiful woman masquerading as a man?"
"People see what they believe is there," she says. "What they are told."
"You were the one that taught me that. Made me the con man and forger I am today." He chuckles and spreads his arms. "Well, what do you think? Has my technique improved since then?"
"You're more perceptive now. The years have given you greater insight into people unlike you," she says. "And it helps that you no longer have your head quite as firmly jammed up your own arse."
"I suppose-"
"But you over-rely on your looks and charm," she continues. "That is still your weakness."
"Use whatever assets you have to their fullest," Eames says. "Isn't that what you told me?"
"Not if your assets are fading."
He inhales sharply as the words land. "I-I'd like to think I have a few years left before they shove me into a grave."
"This isn't about death," Malaya says. "This is about life."
He watches a bright pink book swim by. "You weren't this honest when we were married."
"Would you have listened to me if I were?"
"Likely not," Eames says. "Why are we here?"
"I thought you didn't like the previous landscape."
"That doesn't mean I want to-"
"Travel to a facsimile of Arthur's dreamscape?"
"That wasn't what I was going to say."
"But that's what this is." She holds a finger up and a book comes to nudge at the tip of it, inquisitive.
Eames passes a palm over an anemone, somewhat sulky when it stings. "Your point being?"
"I don't think your mother would care for him."
"I'm already married," Eames says. "It's a moot issue."
Malaya simply pets the book on her finger and says nothing.
* * * * *
"Did you get it?" Eames asks into Arthur's open mouth. "The lingerie, I mean."
"You want it now?" Arthur asks as he grinds not at all subtly against Eames' leg.
"Yes, please," Eames says with another little kiss. "Pretty please."
Eames puts on his most hopeful expression until Arthur relents. "I expect some phenomenal head for all of this."
"And phenomenal head you shall receive."
Arthur walks to his suitcase. His coat, jumper and undershirt land on the chair. He's halfway out of his trousers when Eames says, "Wait. You aren't going to change into it in front of me, are you?"
Arthur cranes his head around as he steps out of his remaining trouser leg. "Yes?"
"But the surprise, the mystery," Eames protests. "Where is your sense of showmanship?"
Arthur mutters something Eames can't quite make out as he swipes something from his suitcase and heads into the loo.
"There's a love," Eames calls out when the door swings shut. He twiddles his thumbs for a moment while he waits and then thinks better of it; by the time Arthur comes out Eames is fully naked and propped up on the pillows in bed.
Arthur stands flat-footed and broad-shouldered in an ill-fitting satin-y negligee that manages to be too small in all the wrong places and too big everywhere else. The blank expression on Arthur's face completes a tableau which, despite Eames' best efforts and fantasies, is completely devoid of any eroticism whatsoever.
"Here I am," Arthur intones as he strides-strides¬-towards the bed with giant, man-sized steps. "Should I take it off or do you want to do something freaky with it?"
Luckily, Eames isn't the type to give up in the face of Arthur-shaped adversity (as this sex bucket list has proven). He's certain there must be something salvageable in this situation. "You could strike a pose for me, couldn't you?"
Arthur awkwardly puts his hands on his hips, then juts his chest out. The image is so ridiculous it takes all of Eames' effort not to burst out laughing.
Regrettably, it seems that Eames' effort isn't enough to suppress all expression on his traitorous face, because Arthur immediately drops his hands to his sides and says, "You're laughing. That's it, I'm taking it off."
"No, no, darling, that was merely a smile of-of surprise," Eames says quickly. "Please, come over here and let me take a look at you."
Arthur narrows his eyes but ultimately acquiesces, coming close enough for Eames to touch his waist. "I don't think I need to remind you that this was your idea."
"Of course, and my gratitude is boundless," Eames replies soothingly. "Is this it?"
"Is what it?"
"No heels? No stockings, no garters, no-" Eames lifts the edge of the slip to peek up; there's nothing but Arthur's dick. "No panties?"
"You said women's lingerie," Arthur says. "If you wanted-accessories, you should have been more specific."
"But I thought-" Eames stops immediately at the incoming glower on Arthur's face. "No, of course you're right. Assumptions are the devils of proper communication."
"I don't even know what a garter is."
"Perfectly understandable." Eames presses a conciliatory kiss to Arthur's thigh and pauses, pinching the embroidery on the cheap polyester between his fingertips. "Why does this say, 'On Your Special Day'?"
Arthur deliberately doesn't meet Eames' gaze. "It does? I-I must have missed that."
Eames squints at the bouquet of flowers dotting the i. "Is this--is this part of a bridal collection?"
"I--" Arthur pauses. "There may have been a sale involved."
"A sale?" Eames sits back, affronted. "You bought clearance rack bridal negligee for my special day?"
"Well, what's the point of buying something full price if you're just going to jizz on it and rip it off anyway?" Arthur snaps.
"Jizz, yes, but who said anything about ripping--" Eames stops, and then rewinds the statement in his head as Arthur colors. "Why, Arthur, I had no idea--"
"Look, are you going to call me a filthy whore or what?" Arthur says. "Because, you know, I could just-"
Eames cuts Arthur off in mid-sentence by leaning forward to run this tongue up the length of Arthur's cock through the negligee. "I believe I promised some phenomenal head?"
"Oh yeah," Arthur says faintly. "Please continue."
"Black or red?" Eames pushes the hem of the slip up to give the head of Arthur's dick a kiss.
"What?" Arthur sounds a bit breathless.
"Would you prefer the new lingerie I buy for you to be black or red?" Eames repeats patiently, mouth pulling back a few inches.
"Are you-" Arthur makes an attempt to grab the back of Eames' head and mash his face back where he wants it, but Eames ducks away. "Now, seriously?"
"If you'd simply answer the question-"
"Why are you so-" Arthur drops his head back with a frustrated grunt. "Black."
"Interesting choice," Eames says, letting out a heavy breath against Arthur's balls. "Why-"
"Because I really don't give a fuck," Arthur replies. "Now stop being a goddamn tease and suck my fucking cock."
"Now now, good girls mustn't use such foul language," Eames says, but swoops in to take the head of Arthur's dick in his mouth anyway.
Appeased, Arthur brings a hand down to card through Eames' hair. "Who said I was a good girl?"
Eames hums in response as he sucks, taking more and more in until his nose is brushing against pubic hair, the scent of Arthur thick and unlike any bird Eames has ever gone down on. He encourages Arthur's legs up, up until they're resting on Eames' shoulders, pressing in tight around his ears. Now this-this reminds him of a woman, the way they tremble and convulse as he eats them out relentlessly.
Arthur doesn't tremble or shake, not really, and his thighs are far more muscular, his grip nearly suffocating as he forgets himself and thrusts. Eames doesn't try to stop him, instead skims his palms up Arthur's sides, over his negligee, thumbing the indent of his bellybutton through the fabric. Arthur's moaning now, Eames' name intermingling with, "Fuck that's good, that's so good," in a hoarse, deep voice that sends heat through Eames' veins.
When Arthur comes, it's straight down Eames' throat.
Eames sits up and sees that Arthur's legs have fallen open in a sated and dazzling display of wanton flexibility. Eames slides a thumb between them, up Arthur's inner thigh to his arse-surprisingly round for his thin frame, completely firm. He can't recall the last time he topped a man outside of a con. But here, with the tight clutch of his hole at the very tip of Eames' thumb, perhaps a switch wouldn’t be so terrible.
"We're going to try this again," Eames says, rolling Arthur over to admire his arse more. "I'm going to buy you some black lingerie and rip it off with my teeth."
Arthur yawns and burrows into a pillow. "Nothing too complicated to put on unless you want to give me a detailed instructional video. I didn't know what half the shit was when I went into Victoria's Secret."
Eames sighs, the sigh of a longsuffering man. "Very well, nothing too complicated."
"Okay." Then, "I'm going to fall asleep if you don’t hurry up and rub one out. If you do come on me after I'm asleep, you gotta clean me up."
"Those are not the words of the saucy minx I was envisioning."
Arthur turns his face to peer balefully at Eames with one eye. "Was I supposed to roleplay in this one also?"
"Well, yes. You might have observed a general interest in it by now," Eames says. "You do recall that my professions of choice often involve literal transformations into other people?"
"I guess," Arthur says, grudgingly. "It's just-I've never really been the best at this kind of stuff. My acting range is pretty much limited to threatening someone loudly with a gun or threatening them quietly with one."
Eames softens when he sees the genuine downward twist of Arthur's mouth. "You do well enough, I think. When you try."
Arthur shifts. "I don't want you to be disappointed if I can't-perform up to spec. Or whatever."
Eames smooths back Arthur's hair where it's fallen loose from the gel. "I won't be."
"And I don't want you to laugh."
"I won't." Eames bends down to kiss the shell of Arthur's ear, the back of his neck. "I'm not expecting award-winning performances. All I want is-to have a bit of fun. I know it's just sex."
Arthur's silent a minute before he says, "If you help me get this thing off I'll give you a handjob."
Eames gives Arthur's earlobe a parting kiss. "Alright. You do look lovely, though. In case I forgot to mention."
Arthur snorts, but pulls Eames in for a messy kiss and brings him off with a solicitous hand on his cock and finger up his bum.
* * * * *
"Have you thought about going back to work?" Arthur asks the next day as he gets dressed. It's a casual day, apparently; he's skipping the tie.
"Is that a hint, darling? Do you want me to buy you more expensive baubles?"
"When have you ever bought me expensive baubles?"
Eames chuckles. "Touché. I'm actually meeting with a mate of mine tonight. Says he has a job for me."
"Is he a known associate of Aquila?" Arthur asks as he combs his hair back. "I can run a check if you give me a name and some basic information."
"He's an independent contractor," Eames says. "English ex-pat. Doesn't speak a lick of Italian."
"I think a Euro sign is easy enough to decipher in any language."
"He knows me under a completely different alias than Robin the itinerant art instructor," Eames says. "He knows my natural hair and eye color."
"Alright." Arthur finishes putting his jacket on and pauses to squeeze Eames' foot through the covers amiably. "Have a good time. I'll see you later."
Italian line translations in English here
Next: Chapter 7, Part 2
Chapter 7: Dude Looks Like a Lady
Master post of all chapters here.
Wordcount: 15,000
Chapter 7: Dude Looks Like a Lady
"What hotel are we heading to?" Arthur asks as they board their flight to Naples International Airport.
"No hotel," Eames replies. "I have a flat."
Arthur stiffens in surprise beside him. They've never visited each others' homes before; through tacit agreement, they'd previously confined their liaisons to the relative neutrality of hotels. "Is there a spare room where I can work?"
Eames slides into the window seat and thinks. "There's a closet."
"Is there internet?"
"Well, it's Italy, therefore dubious at best."
Arthur shrugs. "I brought my own connection. Just thought I'd check."
"It's not a five diamond accommodation, but the coffee is excellent and the view of Mount Vesuvius most impressive. I do hope my landlady hasn't been shot by the Mafia in the past year, though."
"Is assassination a particular concern for her?"
"She's a nosy type. Informer for someone, though I'm not certain who since the government is nearly as corrupt as the Mafia. I try to avoid becoming too involved in local politics."
"And she decided to take you on as a tenant?"
"Are you suggesting that someone might object to my moral character?" Eames asks haughtily, and Arthur chuckles. "I arranged the flat a couple of years back while waiting out a particularly well-defended bounty. I was posing as an itinerant art instructor at the time."
"Really."
"Yes, really. Taught a few watercolor classes and so forth." Eames responds airily. "Quite relaxing."
"Let me guess: you painted some still-lifes and landscapes?"
"I was more interested in portraiture and nudes," Eames says. "I had several classes of very willing models."
"I'll bet." Arthur smiles at the flight attendant who walks down their aisle, checking on everyone's seatbelts and tray tables. Eames takes out an issue of Classic Cars to read and Arthur scrolls through email on his phone.
After the flight attendant is gone, Arthur's hand comes to rest by Eames' leg, pinky brushing against Eames' thigh. Neither of them says a word about it.
* * * * *
The electricity works and the water runs in Eames' flat, which he takes as evidence of his landlady's continued tenacious hold on life. There's a solid layer of dust coating every surface of the place, but otherwise it's exactly as he remembers it: cramped, dingy, and plastered in Ducati posters.
"Were motorcycles part of your cover, too?" Arthur asks as he takes in the main living area, which doubles as kitchen and dining room.
"The previous tenant was a young man rather obsessed with them," Eames replies. "He was run off the road by a speeding motorcyclist, hit his head on a rock and died instantly."
"And you didn't feel any need to redecorate?"
"Well, I do appreciate a spot of irony," Eames says, shrugging.
"Irony or foreshadowing?" Arthur replies, eying a photograph of a mostly naked woman bent over a leather seat.
Eames snorts out a laugh. "Both, I suppose. You can leave your things in the bedroom."
"Are you offering to take the couch?" Arthur asks as they deposit their bags on the bedroom floor.
"Not in a trillion years," Eames replies. "In fact, I expect to be generously compensated in exchange for room and board."
"I always need to read the fine print with you."
"If anyone should be wary of fine print in this scenario, it's me," Eames says, feeling his mood abruptly sour.
"Sudheer's out of the picture." Arthur's expression grows wary. "I told you-"
"Because your word has been unimpeachable in the past few months."
"This from a con man?"
"I've never tried to con you."
Arthur snorts. "That may be the least believable lie you've ever told me."
"You can take the first shower," Eames says as he spins on his heel and walks away. "I should check my mail."
* * * * *
Later, Eames steps out of the bedroom and sees that Arthur's set up a makeshift desk and chair jammed in the closet. Resourceful, clever bastard. "Is the internet working?"
"It's an unsecured connection that's slower than dialup," Arthur replies, already typing away behind his laptop.
"I'll take that as a no."
"You do realize there's a price on your head in this city," Arthur says, only glancing up briefly from his screen. "Dead or alive?"
"All that nonsense is under a different alias." Eames waves the concern away. At Arthur's skeptical eyebrow, he adds, "It's been eons and I appeared quite different then, I assure you. Blue hair in a ponytail, piercings, purple contacts."
That last sentence catches Arthur's attention. "You were pierced?"
"Briefly. I couldn’t wait to be rid of them-the damn things were infected more often than not," Eames says, with no fondness. "Why-"
There's a rap on the door, “Ehilà, c’è qualcuno? Robin, è la signora Pezzella. Che s’i là dentro?”
Arthur's on his feet in an instant, shutting the closet (and his laptop) with barely a sound. Eames approaches the entrance of the flat, wary, and checks through the peephole. Through the glass, he can see an elderly Italian woman bearing food in the hallway.
Eames gestures to indicate no danger and mouths, "I know her." He opens the door.
"Robin, sei tu!" Signora Pezzella squeals as she barrels through the doorway, holding her large, foil-covered tray aloft. "Avevo pensat’ di ave’ visto nu fantasma, ma eccoti ca!"
"Signora Pezzella," Eames says as he accepts the tray. “È passato troppo tempo."
"Ndove s’i stat’?" she demands, speaking in breathless, rapid-fire Italian. "Perché non hai chiamato né scritto? S’i stata preoccupatissima per te, pensav’ fossi annegato nel fiume o peggio."
"Sono dovuto andare via all’improvviso, signora," he replies. "Mi hanno chiamato dal lavoro e sono dovuto ripartire prima di poter salutare. Sono in viaggio sin dall’ultima volta che abbiamo parlato."
"Viaggiando? Ci avrei dovuto pensare. Sei sempre stato un vagabondo, mai contento di dove sei. Ma che ci stai facendo ca? Un uomo della tua età dovrebbe essere a casa dalla moglie, tenendo un bambino a cavalluccio," she scolds. "Almeno s’i fidanzat’ adesso, sì?"
"Come avrei potuto sposarmi quando ho già trovato la donna più bella del mondo?” Eames sinks to one knee and presses a kiss to the back of signora Pezzella's hand to great effect. "E lei mi rifiuta?"
"Oh, Robin." She giggles as she pushes his shoulder, seeming almost girlish in her delight despite graying hair and deep wrinkles. "Quali crudeli, dolci bugie che dici. Non ci posso parlare con te."
He stands and allows her to tug her hand away, still giggling. "Dico solo ciò che vedo, madam."
"Che mascalzone," she says, aflutter. "Ma quanto s’i magro! Magari avevo ragione ad aver pensat’ di aver visto un fantasma. Cosa stai mangiando ultimamente? Scommetto che non è buon cibo."
"Niente di ottimo come lo fa lei, signora," Eames says dutifully.
"Bé, rimedierà la mia lasagna. Mai più quel terribile pollo bollito che chiami pasto. Se metti quella teglia nel forno dovrebbe scaldarsi in qualche minuto. E-" she stops, seeming to notice Arthur in the room for the first time. She gives him a brief once-over, then a second, more thorough once-over. "E chist chi è?"
"Un mio amico, Constantine," Eames replies after Arthur simply stares at them both blankly. Italian is apparently not one of Arthur's languages.
"Ah," she says, and then in halting English, "You American?"
"Yeah, I'm American," Arthur says, seeming relieved to hear something he finally understands. "Hello."
Signora Pezzella turns back to Eames. "Anche lui scapolo, il tuo amico?"
"Sì," Eames says, already amused by where this is heading.
"Tengo una nipote. Molto carina. Non troppo intelligente-sta sempre a ficcarsi nei guai-ma è tutt’acqua passata." She eyes Arthur critically. "Uno come lui sembra adatto a lei."
“È molto gentile da parte sua," Eames says, as demurely as he can manage. "Ma-"
"O magari non è interessato a matrimonio e figli?" she muses, and gives Eames a pointed look. "Un uomo della tua età è troppo vecchio per continuare ad invischiarsi in questo tipo di affari."
"La ringrazio per la sua preoccupazione," Eames says, an edge of irritation creeping in. "E la ringrazio per la lasagna. Sfortunatamente, il mio amico è molto stanco per il volo."
"Mio bel Robin senza nido." She pinches his cheek, rather more forcefully than he expects. "Non devi portare caos qui a casa. Hai capito?"
"Certo, Signora."
"Bene." She pats his cheek once before withdrawing, giving Arthur a brief nod as she does.
After she leaves, Arthur says, "What'd she say about me?"
"She offered to set you up with a niece of hers. I declined."
Arthur scrutinizes Eames' face. "That's all she said?"
"The rest is unimportant," Eames says. "Oh, and she made lasagna."
"I gathered that much," Arthur says, peeling up the edge of the foil. "It looks pretty good."
"From what I recall, her cooking is spectacular," Eames says, inhaling a lovely gust of meaty flavor. "You may have some, I suppose."
"Your enthusiasm for sharing is overwhelming," Arthur says dryly, but it certainly doesn't stop him from digging out a giant piece.
They're both devouring pasta in contented quiet when Arthur says, "Eames, are you pissed at me? Because it seems like you're pissed at me."
"Perhaps I'm simply wondering whether a deranged man will appear in my home unannounced," Eames replies and it is possible, probable, that he's still a bit sore.
"I told Sudheer to get lost. You heard the conversation." Arthur sighs and rubs his forehead. "I already apologized for everything and I'm not sure what else-"
"No, you didn't."
"What?"
"You haven't apologized," Eames says. "Your exact words were, 'I didn't do it for you.'"
"I-" Arthur seems on the verge of arguing, then visibly deflates. "You're right. I'm sorry for being kind of an ass after-after everything happened. I was a little... raw."
"More than 'kind of an ass,' I'd say," Eames replies, somewhat pettily.
"I've been a giant ass," Arthur corrects. "Now I'm going to ask: is there anything I can do to make it up to you?"
"I'm honestly not sure," Eames says. "This is a bit of a new situation for me. Usually I'm the one angering people left and right."
"What did you do to patch things up?"
"Never cared enough to do anything, really." Eames shrugs. "I usually leave the country and that resolves the drama, one way or another."
Arthur puts down his fork and dabs at his mouth. He folds his napkin and sets it down on the table. "I don't want to disappear into the night. I can't control what you do, but I hope-well, I hope that if you decide to disappear, you'll give me a little notice before you do. So maybe we can find a way to-work it out."
"I'll take that under advisement," Eames says. He's unhappy to realize that what he really means is: I don't want to leave, either.
* * * * *
That evening, as they're both preparing for bed, Arthur says, "I'm gonna take a shower. Do you want to fuck after or should I grab a pillow for the couch?"
The directness of the question startles Eames, though he supposes that by now it shouldn't. Arthur: painfully direct when he's not being infuriatingly evasive. "I could do with a shag."
Arthur showers and they have sex. It starts as a business-like exchange of blowjobs, Eames sucking Arthur off, fast and efficient. Arthur, however, chooses to linger over his reciprocal head-moving away from Eames' cock to suckle at his balls, one finger stroking behind them and teasing at the very edge of Eames' hole. It drives Eames utterly mad, and the only sensible thing to do would be to tell Arthur to knock it off.
Instead, Eames makes the mistake of meeting Arthur's eyes and comes almost immediately. He slinks out of bed to brush his teeth and returns to Arthur star-fished across the bed, fast asleep.
With an exasperated grunt, Eames gets onto the bed and shoulders Arthur's wayward limbs aside. The linens and mattress are a bit musty, but all Eames can smell as he drifts off is Arthur: clean, with a hint of cologne.
* * * * *
The next morning, Eames wakes up to the noisy sputter of the shower running. He squints at the window, where the sun has not yet risen, and then at the clock, which reads twelve. After a solid minute of disorientation, he recalls the clock has been broken for ages.
The water stops and Arthur steps out. "Morning," he says.
"Why are you awake?" Eames asks. "Why am I?"
"Went for a run. Tried not to wake you, but this apartment apparently has the loudest plumbing known to man," Arthur replies. "Sorry about that."
"I'm going back to sleep," Eames announces as he rolls his face into the pillow. "Don't eat all the lasagna as that will be my lunch. And probably my dinner."
"You want me to pick something up on the way back?" Arthur asks. "I'm going shopping. You could come with."
"I was married to a woman for six years," Eames mumbles. "I have lost untold hours to the altar of shopping. Never again."
"I wouldn't make you hold my purse."
Eames cracks open one eye. "Liar."
Arthur smiles. "Do you want to meet up for dinner?"
"Alright. Can't run too late, as I'm seeing a mate of mine tonight," Eames says in between yawns. "You're welcome to join, but I have to warn you that it'll involve drinking, carousing, and strippers. The female kind."
Arthur shrugs. "I could go for that."
Eames opens both eyes. "What?"
Arthur raises an eyebrow. "You think I don't like naked women?"
"Well, the cock sucking and ass fucking always gave me that distinct impression, yes."
"I have a general interest in fucking regardless of plumbing."
"As do I," Eames replies. "It's just that I've never observed you so much as glance at a woman."
Arthur shrugs and says, matter-of-factly, "It's because I'm too busy looking at you."
"Hmph, well." Eames' chest puffs up. "That's certainly understandable."
Arthur chuckles as he approaches the bed and touches Eames' calf, where the sheets have slipped off. "Go back to sleep. I'll be back before six."
* * * * *
Eames wakes up later, when it's actually noon. He reheats some lasagna, sorts his mail (one car advertisement for him and a large number of motorcycle catalogs addressed to the previous tenant), and deletes an email he received from Chulda. Then he proceeds to dust, sweep, and clean the flat from top to bottom.
When Arthur returns, it's with approximately fifty shopping bags in tow and a new haircut.
"You changed your hair," Eames says as Arthur dumps everything onto the couch.
"Yeah, my roots were going to show soon," Arthur replies absently as he begins removing clothing, shoes, and leather accessories from the bags. Before Eames can fully parse that statement, Arthur says, "Did you clean up? I'm guessing you don't want me to leave all my stuff here, huh?"
"Not particularly, no."
"I'll bring this to the bedroom and try not to make too much of a mess," Arthur gathers all his things, in relatively good humor. "I got a new suit, too. Off the rack so the fit's going to be mediocre until I take it to my tailor, but I want to see how it wears tonight."
Eames watches Arthur carry all his purchases into the bedroom, then begins gathering up all the empty shopping bags. He's consolidating them into a manageable pile when Arthur reappears, clad in a hunter green suit. It doesn't fit to Arthur's usual exacting standards, but it's still pretty good-slim-cut, flattering. The checked pattern would look ridiculous on any other person in the world; it gives Arthur a distinctly cosmopolitan and debonair air.
"Where are we going for dinner?" Arthur asks, adjusting his sleeve.
"Hole in the wall round the corner." Eames carries several shopping bags to the trash can, circumventing the impulse to leap on Arthur and tear his clothes off. "Good chicken there."
"You're going to-"
Eames looks over his shoulder in time to catch the oddest expression on Arthur's face as Eames bins the shopping bags. It's there and gone, too quickly for Eames to decipher. "Arthur?"
Arthur blinks, seeming to catch himself, and returns to adjusting his sleeve even though it's perfect at this point. "Nothing."
"Am I missing something here?" Eames asks. "Something that's going to rear up and bite me in the arse later on?"
Arthur finally releases his sleeve and says, "Nevermind. It's not a big deal. It's hard to break some old habits, is all."
He walks into the bedroom and that should be the end of the conversation. Except, for a reason Eames isn't fully comfortable admitting to himself, he follows Arthur and says, "Have I ever told you how incredibly unattractive I find your cryptic half-answers to be?"
Arthur looks over from where he's seated on the edge of the bed, startled. "What?"
"I invite you into my flat," Eames says. "Now you're here and it's still like playing riddles with a bloody Sphinx."
Arthur doesn't argue. He looks down at his palms and says, "Yeah, I was wondering about that. You inviting me here, I mean."
"I could have left and I didn't," Eames says, much aggrieved as he walks over to the small window on the far wall. It overlooks a narrow alley and a pile of garbage on the street. "For god's sake, I might as well have dueled Sudheer for your hand."
Arthur lets out an unexpected laugh. "Sudheer said you were developing feelings for me and that you were very resentful of them. I told him he was crazy."
"He is crazy," Eames says, running a finger down the edge of the glass. "An utter lunatic."
Arthur hums, but voices no disagreement. After a pause, he says, "I'm not used to throwing out the shopping bags."
Eames twists round to look at him. "Did you want to keep them?"
"Not especially, no." Arthur stares at the wall in front of him. "Habit, like I said. When I was growing up, we always kept them because you never knew when you might need a nice bag to camouflage something in. Or to make people think you were--better off than you were."
Eames studies Arthur in his lovely suit and trimmed, apparently dyed hair. "You've never said much about how you grew up."
"Most people aren't really interested," Arthur glances at Eames, almost hesitantly. "And now you know about-well. It's a security risk if I give too many details that could lead to a real identity leaking out."
"Is protecting Aiden why you dye your hair?"
"Yeah. By now it's practically habit." Arthur stands. "It's been-years. Maybe a decade."
"I'm trying to imagine you as a redhead or a blond," Eames says. "Please don't tell me you're a blond. I'll be gravely disappointed."
"It's gray." At Eames' disbelieving expressions, Arthur chuckles. "I-we--started getting gray hairs when we were five and were completely gray by age fifteen. Weird genetic quirk from my mother."
"My perception of you has been flipped to an entirely new axis," Eames informs Arthur, cocking his head to one side and squinting. "Perhaps that's why your face hasn't aged at all since you were fifteen. Your hair took it all."
"Tell that to my wrinkles and liver spots," Arthur says, smile a little sad. "We're both getting older, Eames. Can't stop that."
"I'm the only one allowed to be maudlin in advance of my birthday," Eames says briskly. "Really, now. This is hardly the proper mood for carousing and strippers."
"Sorry." Arthur walks over to Eames and straightens the collar of his shirt, smooths the shoulders. "If it helps, I do have some good news. My test results came back clean."
"That is good news," Eames replies. "Bully for us both and our clean bills of health."
Arthur lays a careful kiss on Eames' lips. He seems inclined to reach for more when the distinct rumbling of Eames' stomach interrupts.
"Dinner, strippers, then sex," Eames says, taking a step back before he finds himself in a uselessly miserable limbo between arousal and starvation.
"Hell of a night you have planned, Mr. Eames," Arthur says, the edges of his mouth curved faintly upward.
* * * * *
Federico is wiry and whippet-thin in defiance of the Mediterranean diet and genetics (all his paternal relatives are quite rotund, which leads to a few obvious questions about the family tree). He wears his hair long, peeking slyly out from under his cap, which is so uber-fashionable in Naples it's practically passé.
"Robin, my friend!" Federico exclaims as he drags Eames into a hug with his gangly limbs. "It is good to see you. But do you not know that there's a price on your head?"
"That's all in the past now," Eames says, trying to extricate himself while avoiding the ash dangling from Federico's lit cigarette.
"I don't know about that," Federico says. "It's not only the debt you ran out on-it's also that you slept with Aquila's wife."
"How was I to know she was his wife? She was half his age--I thought she had to be his daughter."
"Like his daughter would have been so much better. What if you put a baby in her?"
"No chance of that," Eames says easily.
"You dog. Signora Aquila likes it in the behind? Or did she get on her knees for you?"
"A gentleman never tells," Eames replies primly, fond memories of her enthusiastic blowjob returning. She'd done this swirling motion with her tongue--
"I don't see any gentlemen here," Federico says, making a big show of looking around. "Do you?"
At that moment, Arthur makes his way out of the restaurant to join them.
"This is Constantine," Eames says. "He's staying at my flat for a while. Constantine, Federico. Mate of mine from a few years back."
"Hello," Federico says, cheerfully. "How do you like sleeping in a dead man's place?"
"It's great," Arthur says without missing a beat. "I love being constantly reminded of my mortality."
"Funny guy, eh?" Federico laughs good-naturedly. "Do you like motorcycles, Constantine? Robin has no appreciation."
"The only civilized way to drive is in a luxury vehicle," Eames interjects. "A motorcycle is a bicycle with a petrol tank and a death wish."
"Robin does not understand." Federico puts a conspiratorial arm around Arthur's shoulder. "A Ducati is like a beautiful woman: deadly, but what a way to go, eh?"
"I'm going to have to side with Robin on this one," Arthur says with a straight face.
"Psh, you two," Federico says, releasing Arthur. "You do not know how to live."
"We do know how to avoid dying, however," Eames says.
"But life is more than not-dying, yes?" Federico says as he begins to walk. "It is singing and dancing and passionate love-making."
"I believe you've mistaken me for some other nationality," Eames says as they walk into a coffee bar. "The English do none of those things, and certainly not with passion."
"And Americans?"
Arthur shrugs. "We've got no problems with singing, dancing, or passionate fucking."
"You stand alone, Robin." Federico chortles and orders them a round of espressos. "Have the best coffee in Italy and then you can tell me how to live a life with no life in it."
"Best coffee in Italy?" Arthur says. "Bold claim."
"Drink and you cannot disagree." Federico offers Eames a cigarette. "Smoke?"
"No, thank you. I quit a few months back."
"Clean living, eh?" Federico nods as he lights a new cigarette of his own. "I thought you looked different."
"Perhaps it's the lack of blue hair?" Eames replies dryly.
"No, it's this." Federico reaches out to prod at Eames' cheek. "I don't remember these wrinkles from before."
"Fuck off," Eames says, slapping Federico's hand away.
"I've had better coffee," Arthur comments as he puts down his empty espresso cup. "Outside Italy, even."
Federico rounds on Arthur, eyes wide and solemn. "You are a man with no working tongue. The best coffee in the world is in Italy. Right here."
Arthur shrugs and begins walking towards the exit. Federico stares after him in bemusement, then turns to Eames. "Your American is a man of few words and bad taste except in suits."
"He does know how to wear a suit," Eames agrees as he follows Federico out.
Their second stop is a dive bar with one Euro shots of the most disgusting swill on the planet. "For luck," Federico declares as he slams his shot down.
Arthur buys them a second round and Eames the third, because by then it doesn't taste nearly as horrible.
Federico, who is already a touch glassy-eyed, leans against the table and says, "Have you heard about inception?"
Arthur's predictably stone-faced while Eames decides to humor Federico. He's a local player without the skill or ambition to climb into anything bigger-harmless at the end of the day. "Inception," Eames says, drawing out the syllables. "What is that?"
"Dreamshare," Federico says earnestly. "It's breaking into heads and stealing secrets. Or putting them there."
"Sounds dicey," Eames says. "You're into this now?"
"No, no. You have to let people into your mind." Federico taps his temple. "Too many valuable things up here for me to share dreams." Arthur lets out a laugh he barely manages to conceal behind a cough. Federico continues, oblivious. "But it is good to hear things, keep your ears open."
"Very true," Eames replies. "What have you heard?"
"They say a team was hired to make a man believe he's a chicken."
"A," Eames stops and rewinds what he just heard to make sure he's understanding correctly. "Wait, what?"
"A chicken," Federico replies. "The bird. Like a duck that makes sounds like-"
"No, we know what a chicken is," Arthur interrupts. "What is-why would anyone do that?"
"A woman, of course!" Federico exclaims, as if it were patently obvious. "What other motives are there?"
"Fear of death," Eames suggests. "Greed, ambition-"
"Robin, Robin, Robin," Federico says. "If you look at the beginning of any story, you will see that the only reason a man gets out of bed in the morning is to get back into it with someone he desires."
"Right," Arthur says, slowly. "Then the woman that started this inception wanted to have sex with a chicken?"
"No, no! The client wants to have sex with a woman, but she is married, see? He turns her husband into an insane chicken man and takes her."
Arthur stares at Federico, clearly searching for a punchline. "... and that is what they say?"
"Yes." Federico nods. "Unbelievable, no?"
"It is at that," Eames says, not risking a glance at Arthur for fear of collapsing into helpless laughter.
After a last round of shots, Federico leads them to a cramped strip bar, with worn carpeting (both literal and figurative) perfumed with the odor of smoke and garlic.
"It is not nice or clean, and it does not have the most beautiful girls," Federico says with expertise born from years of experience, "but it has variety. Americans like variety, yes?"
Arthur says, "Sure, who doesn't?"
Variety they get. A parade of ages, races and, at least in two cases, genitalia, dance on stage before them. The strippers are all bored and jaded, going through the motions of dances they've done a million times before.
Arthur, however, inspires a fair amount of interest-gazes lingering on his expensive suit and the watch peeking out of his sleeve. There's a brief struggle amongst the dancers over who gets to claim him before three of the more attractive ones make their way over.
"Ciao, ragazzi," the one with clear seniority and the largest breasts says. "Come state stasera?"
"Benissimo adesso che si sono unite a noi delle meravigliose ragazze," Federico replies, grinning. "E voi?"
"Molto bene," the leader replies, assessing eyes flicking over Eames and Arthur. "Da dove venite?"
"Napoli, Inghilterra e America," Federico says, pointing at himself, Eames, and Arthur in turn.
"You come a long way to see us," the youngest stripper says in heavily accented English. She has dark hair and a smile that's shark-like underneath its coyness. The leader throws her a disapproving look, but the youngest only stares more intensely at Arthur, refusing to back down.
"How about lap dances for everyone?" Arthur says. Only the youngest seems to understand what he's saying, but all of the strippers register the motion of reaching for a wallet.
There's another brief struggle over which dancer will get whose lap-Arthur's being the grand prize. The youngest circumvents the process by climbing on him first-to the leader's great displeasure. Federico reaches for the leader, who goes to him reluctantly. Eames ends up with the third stripper, the only blonde, who is clearly disappointed by this state of affairs.
It's a perfectly acceptable lap dance-Eames is never one to object to a naked woman gyrating on top of him-but he and the blonde register their mutual indifference early on. He's never been much interested in blondes and she clearly thinks he hasn't the means or temperament to spend on her.
Federico's lap dance-by the leader of the trio-ends earliest. Despite his entreaties for a few more minutes, she steps away from him with a cool smile and refuses to continue dancing without further payment.
Arthur's lap dance, however, is marked by pleasant conversation in stilted English and brief bursts of giggling. Eames raises an eyebrow as the youngest rubs her breasts against Arthur's face, then bends down to catch his lips in an open-mouthed kiss.
"Your friend is popular," Federico says to Eames, sounding impressed and envious.
The other strippers watch for a few minutes before eventually getting fed up. The leader says something sharp to the youngest that Eames can't quite hear, and she reluctantly disentangles herself.
Before the youngest goes, she says to Arthur, "You are handsome. I want to know you better."
At Arthur's dazed expression, Eames leans in to translate. "She said she'd fuck you for free." Arthur blinks; he's hard in his trousers.
"È abbastanza," the leader snaps, grabbing the youngest by the wrist.
"I finish work in half hour," the youngest calls out to Arthur as she's dragged away. "I love America. I love to see America one day."
"It was nice to meet you," Arthur says as the strippers depart.
"Let's go to a real bar," Federico says, crabby over the lack of attention directed his way. "The drinks here taste like piss."
"Do you want to wait for your new friend?" Eames asks Arthur.
"Nah," Arthur stands and adjusts himself, not at all subtly. "Let's get out of here."
They make their way into another bar, this one crammed with football paraphernalia. Federico orders them 'the strongest drinks in Naples'.
Arthur, in a pedantic mood, tries to debate this, arguing that if he made gin in a bathtub that would technically have a higher alcohol content than any commercial beverage. Federico, who is slurring and completely in the barrel at this point, swears and makes pejorative remarks about Arthur's mother. Luckily, it's in Italian.
"I think we've had enough for one night," Eames says, interrupting Arthur's oddly detailed description of how to make moonshine. "Federico, it's been a dubious pleasure, as always. Now go home."
"Get a new mouth, Constantine, since yours does not work. Robin, you are a pale and useless English bastard," Federico says as he seizes Eames in a hug and totters off.
"I think I'm drunk," Arthur comments as they wander out of the bar. He nearly trips over a pile of trash on the sidewalk.
"Steady on," Eames says, grasping Arthur by the arm. "And yes. You are."
"Are you drunk?" Arthur asks as they stumble down the street together.
"I can't feel my face," Eames says, thoughtful. "That probably means yes."
"You have a fucking gorgeous face, and I don't mean just your lips," Arthur burbles. "Did you see how Lucia rubbed her tits all over mine?"
"Who?"
"Lucia. The stripper that gave me a lap dance."
"Gave you some serious wood, more like," Eames says, and laughs at his own drunken wit. "You want to go back and look for her? I bet she'd fuck you all the way to America."
"I've already got someone who can fuck me all the way to America," Arthur says, grabbing at Eames' cock through his trousers.
"True enough," Eames says, amicably. He congratulates himself on a successful navigation back home when they round the corner and he recognizes the buildings.
They stumble into the flat and are on each other as soon as the door closes.
"Can you get hard enough to fuck me?" Eames asks, pawing at Arthur's groin through his trousers as they trip into the bedroom.
"Maybe. I dunno." Arthur sits heavily on the bed and beckons Eames into his lap. "Rub your tits all over my face."
"The fucking might be free, but I do charge for lap dances," Eames says, straddling Arthur's thighs. "And these are pectoral muscles. Firm, manly-"
"You have the best perky nipples," Arthur mumbles as he nuzzles one and pinches the other. "Fucking-perfect size and shape and color."
"What are you, some kind of nipple connoisseur?" Eames asks, swaying forward against Arthur. "Do you have charts and photos and radius spreadsheets?"
Arthur falls back on the bed and Eames goes with him, chest burying Arthur's face. "Hell yeah. I love how hairy your tits are."
"Ugh," Eames says as Arthur attempts to motorboat him. "This is not-I'm not performing for you. This is not me rubbing my tits all over your face."
"Too late," Arthur rebuts with a bite of Eames' right nipple. "I'm pretty hard now. You wanna ride my dick like this?"
"No," Eames says. At least, that's what he says in his head. What comes out of his mouth is, "Yeah, okay."
Eames has to crawl off Arthur to reach for the condom and lube on the nightstand. Arthur takes the moment to claw off his trousers and briefs, then grabs at Eames' ass unhelpfully.
"Arthur," Eames says as he struggles to undo his belt with Arthur kneading his ass cheek. "I can't-"
"Huh?" Arthur says, muzzy, and lets go.
By the time Eames is slicked and ready, Arthur is peering at Eames from under drowsy eyelids. "Hey," he says, squeezing Eames' thigh.
"Hullo," Eames replies, balancing on top of Arthur's hips.
"Come here," Arthur says, tugging Eames down to rest flush against his chest. He kisses Eames, sleepy and inquisitive. "Can we do it like this?"
Eames runs a thumb along Arthur's hairline and imagines he can see the faintest trace of silver. "I don't think your dick will stay in."
"Hm," Arthur says, wrapping his arms around Eames' chest, unbothered. "I like this."
Eames kisses Arthur's nose, the edge of his jaw, his right cheekbone. "I noticed."
Arthur captures one of Eames' hands in his and brings it down to wrap around both their cocks. He begins to jerk at a leisurely pace and doesn't let go. "Like this."
Eames rests his forehead against Arthur's and releases a small sigh. "Like this."
* * * * *
Eames wakes up half on top of Arthur, face buried in his armpit. Eames moves back, uneasy, and winces when it pulls at the dried come in his pubic and chest hair.
Arthur cracks a bleary eye open. "Awake?"
"Unfortunately," Eames says. His head isn't pounding, which is no small relief, but his body aches vaguely everywhere. Bloody hangovers. "Shouldn't you be out jogging by now?"
Arthur groans and closes his eyes again. "I drank too much."
"Hell of a night," Eames replies, preparing to drift back to sleep. Heavenly, wonderful, welcoming sleep.
Which is cut short by the loud and annoying ring of one of Arthur's million mobiles.
"Arthur," Eames says after the phone rings for a solid minute and Arthur makes no move to silence it. "Arthur."
Incredibly, it seems that Arthur has fallen back asleep, mouth ajar. The phone continues to ring.
Eames nudges Arthur once, then again more forcefully. "What?" Arthur says, rousing.
"Your mobile is ringing."
"It'll stop eventually." Arthur slides closer to Eames with a suspicious gleam in his eye. "Do you want to go for a jog?"
"I am extremely hungover. What I want is to lay as still as possible for as long as possible."
"When you're hungover is the best time to jog," Arthur says, moving ever closer. "You'll feel great after."
"I find that highly unlikely," Eames says, closing both eyes resolutely and turning to face the wall.
Arthur sidles up to Eames' back and murmurs, "I'll jerk you off in the shower and rim you after."
This is how Eames finds himself jogging whilst hungover. It is worse than regular jogging, worse than any other exercise he's voluntarily subjected himself to. Arthur bounces nimbly from foot to foot in a seemingly great mood. The tosser.
"That was the worst thing I have ever experienced," Eames says plaintively while Arthur soaps him up in the shower. "Let's never do that again."
"But I like you like this," Arthur says, laying kisses along the back of Eames' neck. "The way you taste and smell."
"Like what?" Eames asks, craning his neck to one side to encourage Arthur to continue.
"After exercising you smell like you, magnified," Arthur replies. "Masculine. Musky. Hot."
Arthur's ploy is completely transparent, but sadly, it does not make it any less effective. "Well, maybe a slow jog isn't the worst activity," Eames says, grudgingly, as Arthur wraps a hand around his cock. "No more whilst hungover, though."
"Sure," Arthur agrees, easily enough. "No more while hungover."
Arthur treats Eames to a leisurely wank and cleans him thoroughly after. The shower's too small for two grown man to linger. Eames dries off and dozes in bed while Arthur applies approximately six million grooming products and eventually joins him.
The wait is worth it; Arthur rims Eames until his toes curl, and then fucks him until he comes again.
Afterwards, Eames sprawls across the sheets and watches sleepily as Arthur gets dressed.
"Back to work?" Eames asks, scratching his chest.
"Yeah," Arthur says, voice low and sated. "You gonna sleep a while?"
"As long as I possibly can," Eames says, pulling the covers up.
Arthur brushes Eames' toes through the sheets as he passes. "Sweet dreams."
* * * * *
"Why do we keep returning here?" Eames asks Malaya, who stands across the widening brook at the center of the dreary gray landscape. "I haven't been back in ages."
Malaya glances over her shoulder at the moldering old mansion in the distance and shrugs. "You'd know better than me. I only visited the once."
"When my father died." Eames spits on the ground. "You scandalized my mother."
"You loved it."
"I did. The prospect of our title and estate going to some dirty foreigner gave her genteel heart palpitations."
"Does she know we divorced?"
"No idea. It's not as if we talk." Eames pauses. "I suppose she'd hate Chulda as well."
Malaya makes a thoughtful sound and takes a step into the brook. "Join me, will you?"
"What, in getting our shoes wet?" Eames asks, even as he complies.
When he steps into the water, they both sink into it, down beneath the surface. They continue traveling downwards, the brook widening into an ocean, vast and speckled with sunlight from above. They eventually land on an exuberantly colorful coral reef, schools of books flapping around them. It reminds Eames of a place he hasn't experienced in years-a place that has apparently transplanted itself into his subconscious.
"I remember that tuxedo," Eames says, shaking away the memories and focusing on Malaya once more. "You were wearing it and a ridiculous false mustache the first time we met."
"It was the first time you saw me," she corrects. "We didn't meet till later."
"That's right. No one else seemed to notice except for me-I couldn't understand it. How could they not see the beautiful woman masquerading as a man?"
"People see what they believe is there," she says. "What they are told."
"You were the one that taught me that. Made me the con man and forger I am today." He chuckles and spreads his arms. "Well, what do you think? Has my technique improved since then?"
"You're more perceptive now. The years have given you greater insight into people unlike you," she says. "And it helps that you no longer have your head quite as firmly jammed up your own arse."
"I suppose-"
"But you over-rely on your looks and charm," she continues. "That is still your weakness."
"Use whatever assets you have to their fullest," Eames says. "Isn't that what you told me?"
"Not if your assets are fading."
He inhales sharply as the words land. "I-I'd like to think I have a few years left before they shove me into a grave."
"This isn't about death," Malaya says. "This is about life."
He watches a bright pink book swim by. "You weren't this honest when we were married."
"Would you have listened to me if I were?"
"Likely not," Eames says. "Why are we here?"
"I thought you didn't like the previous landscape."
"That doesn't mean I want to-"
"Travel to a facsimile of Arthur's dreamscape?"
"That wasn't what I was going to say."
"But that's what this is." She holds a finger up and a book comes to nudge at the tip of it, inquisitive.
Eames passes a palm over an anemone, somewhat sulky when it stings. "Your point being?"
"I don't think your mother would care for him."
"I'm already married," Eames says. "It's a moot issue."
Malaya simply pets the book on her finger and says nothing.
* * * * *
"Did you get it?" Eames asks into Arthur's open mouth. "The lingerie, I mean."
"You want it now?" Arthur asks as he grinds not at all subtly against Eames' leg.
"Yes, please," Eames says with another little kiss. "Pretty please."
Eames puts on his most hopeful expression until Arthur relents. "I expect some phenomenal head for all of this."
"And phenomenal head you shall receive."
Arthur walks to his suitcase. His coat, jumper and undershirt land on the chair. He's halfway out of his trousers when Eames says, "Wait. You aren't going to change into it in front of me, are you?"
Arthur cranes his head around as he steps out of his remaining trouser leg. "Yes?"
"But the surprise, the mystery," Eames protests. "Where is your sense of showmanship?"
Arthur mutters something Eames can't quite make out as he swipes something from his suitcase and heads into the loo.
"There's a love," Eames calls out when the door swings shut. He twiddles his thumbs for a moment while he waits and then thinks better of it; by the time Arthur comes out Eames is fully naked and propped up on the pillows in bed.
Arthur stands flat-footed and broad-shouldered in an ill-fitting satin-y negligee that manages to be too small in all the wrong places and too big everywhere else. The blank expression on Arthur's face completes a tableau which, despite Eames' best efforts and fantasies, is completely devoid of any eroticism whatsoever.
"Here I am," Arthur intones as he strides-strides¬-towards the bed with giant, man-sized steps. "Should I take it off or do you want to do something freaky with it?"
Luckily, Eames isn't the type to give up in the face of Arthur-shaped adversity (as this sex bucket list has proven). He's certain there must be something salvageable in this situation. "You could strike a pose for me, couldn't you?"
Arthur awkwardly puts his hands on his hips, then juts his chest out. The image is so ridiculous it takes all of Eames' effort not to burst out laughing.
Regrettably, it seems that Eames' effort isn't enough to suppress all expression on his traitorous face, because Arthur immediately drops his hands to his sides and says, "You're laughing. That's it, I'm taking it off."
"No, no, darling, that was merely a smile of-of surprise," Eames says quickly. "Please, come over here and let me take a look at you."
Arthur narrows his eyes but ultimately acquiesces, coming close enough for Eames to touch his waist. "I don't think I need to remind you that this was your idea."
"Of course, and my gratitude is boundless," Eames replies soothingly. "Is this it?"
"Is what it?"
"No heels? No stockings, no garters, no-" Eames lifts the edge of the slip to peek up; there's nothing but Arthur's dick. "No panties?"
"You said women's lingerie," Arthur says. "If you wanted-accessories, you should have been more specific."
"But I thought-" Eames stops immediately at the incoming glower on Arthur's face. "No, of course you're right. Assumptions are the devils of proper communication."
"I don't even know what a garter is."
"Perfectly understandable." Eames presses a conciliatory kiss to Arthur's thigh and pauses, pinching the embroidery on the cheap polyester between his fingertips. "Why does this say, 'On Your Special Day'?"
Arthur deliberately doesn't meet Eames' gaze. "It does? I-I must have missed that."
Eames squints at the bouquet of flowers dotting the i. "Is this--is this part of a bridal collection?"
"I--" Arthur pauses. "There may have been a sale involved."
"A sale?" Eames sits back, affronted. "You bought clearance rack bridal negligee for my special day?"
"Well, what's the point of buying something full price if you're just going to jizz on it and rip it off anyway?" Arthur snaps.
"Jizz, yes, but who said anything about ripping--" Eames stops, and then rewinds the statement in his head as Arthur colors. "Why, Arthur, I had no idea--"
"Look, are you going to call me a filthy whore or what?" Arthur says. "Because, you know, I could just-"
Eames cuts Arthur off in mid-sentence by leaning forward to run this tongue up the length of Arthur's cock through the negligee. "I believe I promised some phenomenal head?"
"Oh yeah," Arthur says faintly. "Please continue."
"Black or red?" Eames pushes the hem of the slip up to give the head of Arthur's dick a kiss.
"What?" Arthur sounds a bit breathless.
"Would you prefer the new lingerie I buy for you to be black or red?" Eames repeats patiently, mouth pulling back a few inches.
"Are you-" Arthur makes an attempt to grab the back of Eames' head and mash his face back where he wants it, but Eames ducks away. "Now, seriously?"
"If you'd simply answer the question-"
"Why are you so-" Arthur drops his head back with a frustrated grunt. "Black."
"Interesting choice," Eames says, letting out a heavy breath against Arthur's balls. "Why-"
"Because I really don't give a fuck," Arthur replies. "Now stop being a goddamn tease and suck my fucking cock."
"Now now, good girls mustn't use such foul language," Eames says, but swoops in to take the head of Arthur's dick in his mouth anyway.
Appeased, Arthur brings a hand down to card through Eames' hair. "Who said I was a good girl?"
Eames hums in response as he sucks, taking more and more in until his nose is brushing against pubic hair, the scent of Arthur thick and unlike any bird Eames has ever gone down on. He encourages Arthur's legs up, up until they're resting on Eames' shoulders, pressing in tight around his ears. Now this-this reminds him of a woman, the way they tremble and convulse as he eats them out relentlessly.
Arthur doesn't tremble or shake, not really, and his thighs are far more muscular, his grip nearly suffocating as he forgets himself and thrusts. Eames doesn't try to stop him, instead skims his palms up Arthur's sides, over his negligee, thumbing the indent of his bellybutton through the fabric. Arthur's moaning now, Eames' name intermingling with, "Fuck that's good, that's so good," in a hoarse, deep voice that sends heat through Eames' veins.
When Arthur comes, it's straight down Eames' throat.
Eames sits up and sees that Arthur's legs have fallen open in a sated and dazzling display of wanton flexibility. Eames slides a thumb between them, up Arthur's inner thigh to his arse-surprisingly round for his thin frame, completely firm. He can't recall the last time he topped a man outside of a con. But here, with the tight clutch of his hole at the very tip of Eames' thumb, perhaps a switch wouldn’t be so terrible.
"We're going to try this again," Eames says, rolling Arthur over to admire his arse more. "I'm going to buy you some black lingerie and rip it off with my teeth."
Arthur yawns and burrows into a pillow. "Nothing too complicated to put on unless you want to give me a detailed instructional video. I didn't know what half the shit was when I went into Victoria's Secret."
Eames sighs, the sigh of a longsuffering man. "Very well, nothing too complicated."
"Okay." Then, "I'm going to fall asleep if you don’t hurry up and rub one out. If you do come on me after I'm asleep, you gotta clean me up."
"Those are not the words of the saucy minx I was envisioning."
Arthur turns his face to peer balefully at Eames with one eye. "Was I supposed to roleplay in this one also?"
"Well, yes. You might have observed a general interest in it by now," Eames says. "You do recall that my professions of choice often involve literal transformations into other people?"
"I guess," Arthur says, grudgingly. "It's just-I've never really been the best at this kind of stuff. My acting range is pretty much limited to threatening someone loudly with a gun or threatening them quietly with one."
Eames softens when he sees the genuine downward twist of Arthur's mouth. "You do well enough, I think. When you try."
Arthur shifts. "I don't want you to be disappointed if I can't-perform up to spec. Or whatever."
Eames smooths back Arthur's hair where it's fallen loose from the gel. "I won't be."
"And I don't want you to laugh."
"I won't." Eames bends down to kiss the shell of Arthur's ear, the back of his neck. "I'm not expecting award-winning performances. All I want is-to have a bit of fun. I know it's just sex."
Arthur's silent a minute before he says, "If you help me get this thing off I'll give you a handjob."
Eames gives Arthur's earlobe a parting kiss. "Alright. You do look lovely, though. In case I forgot to mention."
Arthur snorts, but pulls Eames in for a messy kiss and brings him off with a solicitous hand on his cock and finger up his bum.
* * * * *
"Have you thought about going back to work?" Arthur asks the next day as he gets dressed. It's a casual day, apparently; he's skipping the tie.
"Is that a hint, darling? Do you want me to buy you more expensive baubles?"
"When have you ever bought me expensive baubles?"
Eames chuckles. "Touché. I'm actually meeting with a mate of mine tonight. Says he has a job for me."
"Is he a known associate of Aquila?" Arthur asks as he combs his hair back. "I can run a check if you give me a name and some basic information."
"He's an independent contractor," Eames says. "English ex-pat. Doesn't speak a lick of Italian."
"I think a Euro sign is easy enough to decipher in any language."
"He knows me under a completely different alias than Robin the itinerant art instructor," Eames says. "He knows my natural hair and eye color."
"Alright." Arthur finishes putting his jacket on and pauses to squeeze Eames' foot through the covers amiably. "Have a good time. I'll see you later."
Italian line translations in English here
Next: Chapter 7, Part 2