[FIC] Edge of Desire
Title: Edge of Desire
Author: crazyeverafter
Rating: PG-13 for vague smut.
Word Count: 8k+
Disclaimer: Nolan owns, I'm just playing in the sandbox dreamscape.
Spoilers/Warnings: OOC (minutely). Vague smut & a vulnerable Eames. Parentheses & italics = Eames's thoughts.
Summary: Eames wonders what it is that allows him to keep Arthur.
Congratulations, Ariadne & Jensen, read the banner draped along the far wall; the same wall upon which Sean Eames was currently leaning, champagne glass in hand (they’d not offered anything stronger), as he listened to some nameless idiot drone on and on about things for which Eames could not possibly care less. Not a moment too soon, the small crowd of party guests parted almost as if cued to do so, and Eames caught a sanity-inducing glimpse of Arthur. The man stood across the room, speaking animatedly to Ariadne and her new fiancée, Jensen, a former-military communications technician she had met during a job in Palo Alto, California. He himself was no stranger to the less-than-legal lifestyle, and he never grew tired of Ariadne’s vast curiosity; they unquestionably worked as a couple, and not a single person could have been happier about the upcoming nuptials. Well, not a single person besides Ariadne’s father. Eames suggested that the team plant the idea in Mr. Douglas’s head that he absolutely adored his future son-in-law. Unfortunately, Cobb shot the idea down immediately; no one ever let Eames have any fun.
Eames drew his tired eyes back to Arthur’s slender frame. His gaze effortlessly drifted from Arthur’s impeccably slicked-down hair, past his impeccably dressed body to his impeccably shined shoes and then back again, stopping this time to stare at the man’s countenance. A sincere smile graced his features, and Eames felt a swell of love and possessiveness puff up his chest. At the same time, he felt a small lump grow at the base of his throat. There were so many things about Arthur that he happened to love and adore (not to mention the man himself), so many things that would forever hold both Eames’ attention and his heart. There was no doubt in his mind that Arthur was the other half to his soul (and God, did that sound bloody cheap and pathetic, but it was the most important truth he had ever told). However, Eames could not be sure the same held true for Arthur. For Arthur, who was obsessive and compulsive, but also one of the kindest people to ever walk the earth. He could kick your arse if you required such, but if you instead required a shoulder to cry upon, he could provide that just as easily. He was perfect by no means, but for all Eames cared, he may as well have been. Eames, on the other hand, was quite a different story. He was a professional liar and cheat. He gambled. He drank. He swore. He had more vices than redeeming qualities, and he was not sure that would ever change (he was quite certain that it never would, actually). What is was that had possessed Arthur to stay with him this long, he could not be sure. He was certain, though, that there was no good reason for Arthur to do so. Arthur deserved much better and should want much better….
Damn it, Eames. Are you actually complaining about this? Get hold of yourself, you nutter. Just shut up and enjoy the party as you’re meant to do.
Eames shook himself, both literally and figuratively, and turned to the man who was currently speaking at him. Giving him a faux bow, he said, “It’s been lovely speaking with you, but I’m afraid my love life beckons,” and walked away before he could be stopped. He crossed the room quickly, pausing only once to side-step the adorable little girl running around in front of him, his dance partner from earlier in the evening, Jensen’s niece. A roguish grin fell onto Eames’s lips as he came to stand directly behind Arthur, who by now was standing alone. He placed his hands on the man’s waist, but went no farther. Unfortunately, they were in public, and though that had not exactly stopped them before, this was Ari’s party; not even Eames lacked decorum when it came to his co-workers, his friends. Gently, and inconspicuously, though, he brushed his pelvis into Arthur’s ass. Arthur’s back stiffened at the unexpected touch, and Eames leaned forward to whisper into his ear, “Sorry, darling. Bloody waiter bumped into me.” Well, maybe he lacked a little decorum. Arthur turned to face him, and Eames prepared for the drama. Instead, Arthur did not seem upset at all. In fact, he actually looked… happy.
“How many glasses of champagne have you had, love? You’re actually smiling by choice.”
“Miracles happen. Further proof would be the fact that you are actually wearing clothes that match. Now, if only you’d learn to do that without my help.”
“You can’t simply learn things like that. For example, paisley is an acquired taste.”
“Did you acquire it from a flea market?” Arthur drily replied.
“Oh, pet. You kill me. You know you would miss my usual wardrobe if ever I began to dress ‘more sensibly’.”
“Miss it? Impossible. I’m fairly certain that most of your shirts would be visible from space.”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re incredibly sexy when you show off that dazzling wit of yours?”
“Yes,” he answered without hesitance.
“Oh. Well, then,” Eames said, taking a step back from Arthur. “I guess you don’t need to hear it from me.”
Suddenly, Arthur’s hands were at Eames’ lapels, pulling him closer once more, their faces nearly touching.
“I never said that.”
“Ahem. Mr. Eames, Mr. Sims. If you’d please save your canoodling for later, it would be greatly appreciated.” Cobb’s voice came booming from the speakers placed around the room. Arthur blushed furiously and attempted to leap back from Eames. Eames was not having any of that, though; he grabbed Arthur, kissed him full on the mouth (“One for the road, darling“), and then released him as he finally turned to Cobb.
“Carry on, please, Dom.”
“Thank you, Mr. Eames, for your permission. How very gracious of you…. Now, since the peep show is over, it‘s time for the toasts to be made. Who wants to go first?”
Yusuf volunteered, and he kept his speech short and sweet, which was not necessarily the case with the subsequent speeches (these people knew not when to shut the hell up). It seemed as if each and every person in the room took a turn at the microphone on the makeshift stage, all blathering on in the same wistful, romantic tone and basically repeating the person that came before (it was a bloody bore).
Eventually, it was time for the rest of the “dream team” (Yusuf’s term) to give the microphone a whirl. Cobb kept his toast simple, (a heartfelt “I’ve been in your shoes, and so I want to give you the same advice I got: ’Life is short. Be patient, be forgiving, be happy, and above all, be in love’”), but not as simple as Arthur, who took the next turn (“I wish you both the best”). Eames felt an easily explicable urge to liven things up as he climbed upon the stage and brandished the microphone like a seasoned stand-up comedian. He didn‘t stray too far from the popular well wishes until the closing line of his speech: “I wish you both sixty years of joyful rugrats, inalienable happiness, and mind-blowing sex.” The room went silent for a moment before erupting into laughter, both at the words and Ariadne’s reaction (she blushed more violently than Arthur did, and that truly was saying something). Eames reveled in the applause he received, but quickly hopped off the stage to hug Ariadne and shake Jensen’s hand, the former action meant as an apology, and the latter as congratulations.
Finally, after every speech had been spoken and every tear shed, after each laugh was laughed and the sound of clinking champagne glasses began to grate on the nerves of every guest, the party was over; it was time to go home. Blissful, peaceful, quiet, cozy home. Eames and Arthur grabbed their jackets and bid goodbye to the others in the room, promising to meet up again soon (and meet again they would, at Jensen’s spectacular stag party). Eames led Arthur out of the small house, and into a waiting cab that he’d phoned just minutes before. On the way home, they shared small talk of the party and the impending wedding and of the inevitable meltdowns beforehand. Mostly, though, there was nothing to fill the backseat of the taxi but companionable silence. The city lights blazed outside, shining almost painfully brightly in the darkness, and each man stared out his window until, finally, their hotel sprang up in front them.
“Alright then, here we go. Home again, home again.”
“I can see that, Sean, thank you.”
“Just trying to be helpful, love. As always.”
The cab pulled away, and Eames danced up the stairs to the hotel door, which he held open. Arthur followed slowly, lacking the same spring in his own step that Eames had in his, and pulled the room key from his pocket. They entered the lush lobby of the hotel (only the best for Arthur), nodded politely to the crotchety old night watchman, and walked directly to the gorgeous but archaic elevator (the slowest in existence, likely) without speaking. Once safely inside, Eames sidled innocently over to Arthur. Slowly, he pulled him into an embrace and pressed a suggestive kiss to his lips, hoping for an encouraging response. No dice. Not only did Arthur only just return the kiss, he barely reacted at all. Well, not aside from a condescending comment. Of course.
“Didn’t get your elevator-kink satisfied last week, Mr. Eames?”
“Didn’t get the stick removed from your arse last week, Mr. Sims?”
“Nope. Thought that was just another kink of yours.”
Eames leaned back against the wall of the elevator and laughed.
“Touché.”
“It’s nothing personal, I promise. I’m just tired,” Arthur stepped forward to rest his head on Eames’ shoulder and yawned.
“Oh. Well, that’s completely understandable, darling,” came the easy lie. It was not that he thought Arthur was lying; he had every right to be tired. Still, though, the rejection formed a hot knot in Eames’ gut. How he hated what this man had done to him. He had reduced him to a quivering bundle of nerves and emotion. He had made him… human.
Arthur sighed quietly and picked his head up to look into Eames’s eyes.
“Don’t lie to me, Sean.”
“Who says I‘m-”
“I do. I‘ve known you plenty long enough to tell. You aren’t as skilled as you think.”
“Hmm. That’s not what you said last night, pet….” Arthur just stared at him, the expression of vague exasperation on his face conveying more meaning than any words ever could.
The elevator doors slid open with a cheerful chime and Arthur led the way into the hall. The rich gold carpeting of the hallway moved easily under two pairs of well-shined shoes as Eames followed him to their room (number five-hundred twenty-eight, quite ironically). Arthur unlocked the door and swept it open in one swift movement. In the next, he took off his jacket (wrinkle-free, even now, at the end of a long day) and arranged it carefully along the back of a hideous easy chair that marred the room’s otherwise banal (boring) décor. Eames followed suit with his own jacket, placing it on the plain wooden chair that sat tucked beneath a small writing desk against the wall, though his actions were more careless. His shoes were next to go, as he slid them off and kicked them nearer to the chair, out of the way enough for now (Arthur will be moving them to the closet anyway, once he’s awake and sober enough for his brain to begin acting on its many varied compulsions).
“Mmm, much better,” he sighed, stretching his arms above his head, reaching as high as was possible, which was fairly high, actually.
“Sean-” Arthur began. He was perched on the edge of the bed, quietly removing his own shoes.
“I told you, Arthur: it’s fine. We’ve had ourselves a long day; you bloody well should be tired.”
Arthur placed his watch on the small bedside table before padding over to Eames and positioning himself directly in front of him. He was shorter now without shoes, though, normally, their heights were nearly equal, and Eames found himself looking downward to meet Arthur’s eyes. If not for the uncertainty gnawing at him, he may have found the situation amusing. In fact, though he was not necessarily feeling amused, he acted as though he was. It was the simplest thing he could think to do.
“It hasn’t been that long of a day. We’ve suffered much worse, believe me.”
“Tiredness isn’t relative, love. When you’re tired, you’re tired.”
“And when you’re upset, you lie.”
“…”
“It’s almost as if you are afraid to upset me, Sean.”
“What? I upset you all the bloody time.”
“No, you annoy me all the bloody time. You never anger me.”
“And for some reason you’re complaining about that? By the way, never say bloody again. It's just... not right.”
Arthur opened his mouth as if to speak, but faltered. His brow crinkled as he tried to think of how to translate his feelings into the correct words. He licked his lips, pursed them together, and placed a hand on each side of Eames face, as if anchoring himself there for fear of falling away. Eames did his best to meet Arthur’s gaze, but he found it difficult. Maybe he really wasn’t as skilled a liar as he liked to think; this man could see right through him, seemed to be gazing deep into him even now. The feeling was comforting in some ways, a feeling that screamed home; in other ways, though, the feeling was like cold steel twisting around his stomach, pushing his secrets (his fears) to the surface, where they floated openly for everyone to see and dissect.
“No, not complaining, exactly. I just, I want you to tell me honestly how you‘re feeling. I hate that you act unaffected by something I do, or something I say, that bothers you. Or, alternatively, by something that I fail to do or say that nonetheless leads to you becoming upset.”
“I understand that, but I’ve told you that I wasn’t bothered. Multiple times, now.”
Arthur dropped his hands and then rolled his eyes (because that‘s what Arthur does when someone to whom he is speaking happens to let their idiocy shine through). Sometimes, Eames forgot just how young the man was; times like these, though, he was quickly reminded. Arthur was pacing now, making small circles in front of Eames, who was starting to get dizzy just by watching the man’s movements. Once he spoke again, he paused in his movements, and the aura of an old soul returned, safe once more in its usual place.
“Yes, but you’re lying. I can see right through you, Sean. You said you weren’t bothered, but the look in your eyes- I can tell I hurt you. And I hate it, because despite the fact that you’re often more irritating than a horde of rabid houseflies, I happen to care about you. You know what else I hate?” With his final sentence, he began to pace again.
“Frozen waffles. Cheap shoes. Anything having to do with basketball or tennis,” Eames began rattling off some of Arthur’s pet peeves. He had a whole list ready to go, and he had only just begun when Arthur interrupted with a cock of his head and a blistering sarcastic smile.
“Cute,” he paused, standing still, “But this is not the time.” And again with the pacing. “What I also hate is the fact that you felt you had to lie to me in the first place. I’m certainly not asking that you pick a fight over each and every displeasing thing that I say, but I am asking for your complete honesty.”
Eames reached out and hurriedly stopped Arthur in his tracks by grabbing hold of his thin shoulders.
“All right! All right. Please stop pacing now; it has nearly made me sick watching you go in those little circles. How does that do for complete honesty?”
“Eames. Sean, look at me.” Arthur pulled him close and wrapped his arms around his waist. Eames melted into the touch, throwing every sensation but this warm one to the wind.
“Yes?”
“Talk to me.”
“Not to state the obvious, but have I not been doing just that?”
Swagger, machismo, sarcasm…. Armor. That is to what his facade boiled down.
“…”
“Fine. Let us move to the bed, though, shall we? It’s exhausting just standing here this way.”
Arthur nodded in concession and stepped aside, gesturing for Eames to move. He did so immediately, bounding over to the bed and flopping upon it facedown, destroying in three seconds the decorating that had likely taken at least fifteen minutes to complete. He rolled to his side and rested his head on his hand as he watched his lover come nigh. Arthur took a more casual approach (the only time Arthur could be considered casual, really), striding steadily forward, removing his vest and belt, placing them on the chair with his jacket, and then carefully sliding onto the bed beside Eames, all without dislodging a single hair from its perfectly styled position atop his head.
“That’s rather infuriating, you know?”
“What is?”
“Your hair.”
“… My hair? How so?”
“Well, multiple ways, really. First of all, there is the fact that you could likely stand at the edge of a category five hurricane without earning yourself a single flyaway strand. I‘m a tad jealous, if truth be told.” Arthur scoffed, but let Eames continue. “Secondly, there’s the fact that your hair always looks so bloody touchable. I want to run my hands through it, just because I can. However, you would likely kill me if ever I mussed it up. Maybe that’s part of the thrill, actually,” he laughed quietly, and the bed shook with the movement.
“You’ve played with my hair plenty of times.”
“Mainly when you’re sleeping.”
“Still, it counts.”
“Oh, hardly. Your reaction is half the fun. You’ve no idea just how much I love the little noises you make…” he trailed off, lost in thought and smiling at the memories playing inside his head. He started as Arthur arbitrarily laughed aloud. The look on his suddenly illuminated face caused Eames to raise his eyebrows, warily quizzical as to what was suddenly so brilliant.
“Well, I do know just how much you love a good bargain, so, I have one for you: you tell me exactly why you’ve been so… agreeable lately, and I’ll let you amuse yourself with my bloody touchable hair all night long. While I’m awake.”
“Oh, tempting offer, darling. But…”
“But?”
Eames sighed. Cue the uneasy pit making its encore deep in his gut. Oh, it would be so bloody simple to tell Arthur what he feared, to tell him how he felt inadequate. He was cheap generic gelatin to the point man’s crème brûlée (and after all, gelatin has nothing to offer to the best thing on the menu). It seemed as though it was inevitable that Arthur would soon realize just how much he was conceding to make this relationship succeed, and he would then therefore realize that Eames might not be worth the trouble after all. To Eames, it felt merely like a waiting game. He gave himself fully to Arthur, because his heart would allow nothing less, but he could not help but worry ceaselessly. He knew that when Arthur finally wised up, his heart would be shattered irreparably. He knew that when Arthur came to his senses, Eames’s world would essentially stop turning, at least for a great while. Maybe it would not be the end of the world, but it would effectively ruin Eames for anyone who might come later, not that he would welcome anyone else in the first place. Still. Arthur had come into Eames’s life as a welcome challenge and nothing more. Slowly, he had become an acquaintance, someone with whom it was acceptable to down a few drinks. Then, after once downing a few drinks too many, Arthur had become the first man that Eames had ever groped in an elevator. The following week was spent in silence, each man hardly daring glance at the other, until the tension came to a head after a late night spent working in too-close quarters. The rest was history, as they said, unforgettable and inalienable history.
Eames was staring intensely towards and picking at an invisible thread on the wrinkled duvet covering the bed. His words came quietly, and he mentally chastised himself when they did not come out sounding quite as casual as he had hoped they might.
“I’m afraid you might laugh at what I’ve to say,”
“Just try me,” Arthur soothed.
“All right. We have ourselves a deal, but I want you to listen to me, Arthur. Let me finish with what I have to say before you interrupt me with the answer to all of life’s questions, okay? Otherwise, I just may not be able to say it at all.” Arthur nodded and mimed zipping his lips. “All right. Well, I love you, well and truly. You know that.” Arthur nodded again. “And you also know that I would do anything, be anything, just for you, and that I will be here by your side for as long as you’ll allow.” His tone left no room for questioning; he was merely stating facts. Once more, Arthur nodded (looking more and more like a bobble-head figurine each time he did so). “I hold onto no pretenses when I’m around you. For all the bravado I show in public, particularly on a job, there’s actually just another human being in here,” he rapped playfully on his temple, “And I get just as bloody scared and confused as the rest of the population, believe it or not.”
Eames paused there and took a second to gather his thoughts (bloody hell, this was about to become difficult). He found himself no longer able to look into Arthur’s eyes and rolled onto his back, staring instead at the oft-ignored cream-colored ceiling. He sighed (he was doing that a lot lately; in fact, he was beginning to feel like an abused and unhappy housewife, too scared and meek to speak and left merely to while away the hours sighing her displeasure).
“Arthur?” he called to the ceiling.
“…”
“Arthur.”
“Sorry. Thought I wasn’t allowed to speak.”
“Arthur,” he intoned, finally turning to look at the man.
“Yes?” It was now Eames’s turn to roll his eyes, and he did so immediately before returning his gaze to the ceiling.
“… Say we go on another job with Cobb and he hires a new team member…. And let us say that this team member happens to be incredibly attractive and highly intelligent and… and completely within your league. Tell me, what happens then?”
As Arthur was silently contemplating his answer, Eames was fighting the urge to vomit; he had never been more scared in his life. His heart beat as rapidly as a hummingbird’s (probably even more rapidly) and every prayer he had ever learned as a child began to scroll brokenly through his head. For good measure, because he needed all the help he could get at this moment, he even wrote some new ones, making false promises (oh, but how he believed at that very moment) to a God with whom he was rarely on speaking terms, asking in return something oh-so-simple: a response from-
“We buy another old and ragged chair for the warehouse, and maybe, just maybe, Cobb eventually gets laid…. Or Yusuf…. Maybe even Saito, if he ever comes around again…. I guess it depends. Is this new team member picky?”
The calming relief washed over Eames like a waterfall over rocks, and it was more a million times more quenching than a tanker full of water after a seven-month trip to the center of a torturous desert. Laughter bubbled from his chest and escaped through his lips, building in volume until he was certain the neighbors would wake. He was also fairly certain that his cackling had quite the maniacal edge to it, but this, too, he found difficult to be bothered with at the moment. Soon, Arthur joined in at a much lower volume, though he was laughing more at Eames’s joy than at the words that had been spoken. He hoped that Eames would finally get the picture, would finally realize that he was absolutely perfect for Arthur in every important way (and in most of the not-so-important ways, too). Arthur was not going anywhere, and he did not want Eames disappearing either.
Eames, who still was lying on his back and shaking with the occasional burst of hysterical laughter, felt the bed wiggle as Arthur slowly crept up beside him. He propped an elbow on Eames’s chest, and lowered his face until their lips were very nearly brushing. Eames sobered up immediately as a very different heat began spreading through his gut, threading itself into every fiber and nerve ending his body possessed. Quite suddenly he felt alive. Whole. Happy. Horny.
“And as far as my ‘league’ is concerned, well…. It is filled with people just like me. And I don’t think I could handle another me.” Arthur whispered these last words as one hand snaked its way down Eames’s chest and stomach and went to work on his belt.
“I doubt anyone could, darling,” Eames breathed. Even before he could inhale again, Arthur’s lips were on his, effectively shutting down all functions of his brain (the one upstairs) that required actual thought. Just as Eames's empty lungs began to ache, Arthur’s mouth left his own and began trailing kisses along his jaw and neck. He gasped for air, but the breath was cut short and became a groan as Arthur's hand finally conquered Eames’s belt and made its way beneath his pants. Arthur's other hand busied itself unbuttoning Eames's shirt. Eames might have been of assistance had hot, wet lips not been accosting each and every inch of his burning skin, skin that was being revealed at an achingly slow pace. Yet despite this, and many other delicious distractions, Eames felt a sudden burst of clarity and realized that this night would not be nearly as fun if Arthur was allowed to remain so fully clothed. Quickly, he sat up to remedy that situation, but before he got the chance, he was pushed by Arthur to the head of the bed. Their lip-to-lip contact never once wavered. In their frenzy, though, bed pillows were tossed aside without a care (the bedside lamp nearly followed suit, but Arthur‘s skills for multi-tasking apparently knew no bounds). Skin encountered skin as mismatched clothing hit the floor, where it would lay forgotten until the morning (if they were even sated by daybreak, that was, and at this point, whether they would be or not was anyone’s guess).
“Arthur,” Eames panted. “Arthur, please. Please.”
The drawer of the bedside table rattled as Arthur rummaged blindly through it, his hand seeking the familiar bottle of lubricant amidst the other junk that the drawer contained.
“Remind me to clean out this drawer later,” he whispered against Eames’s ear, his prize successfully located and the drawer safely closed.
“It’s my bloody drawer. I’ll leave it as messy as I would-” Eames groaned as Arthur’s fingers abruptly entered him, stretching and preparing him for their lovemaking. “Oh, bloody hell,” he groaned, grasping for hold on Arthur’s hips and clutching what little he found. “If I don’t feel you inside of me within the next four seconds, I’ll never last.”
“Always so pushy, Mr. Eames.”
“I love you too much to kill you, Mr. Sims, but you surely do make the notion seem appealing sometimes.”
Arthur responded with actions rather than words when he swiftly entered Eames, who could not help the throaty moan that escaped his lungs. There was a minute tinge of pain that colored the pleasure, but Arthur stilled, and Eames took the time to relax and adjust to the feeling (and oh, what a feeling it was). As Arthur slowly began to move within him, Eames sat up as best he could and pulled the man down to meet him. Their lips touched and it seemed as though each man was trying to devour the other before Arthur slowly pulled away. He was close to completion, Eames could tell, and Eames himself was not far behind.
“Sean,” Arthur whispered against his ear, his words coming in uneven lurches, “You don’t have to worry any more. It is always going to be you that I love. You are unforgettable, irreplaceable. Je ne regrette rien, as they say. Nothing.” And with one final thrust and a touch of his hand, he brought them both to completion. Afterwards, they did not move, save for the heaving of their chests. They lay together for what seemed like a lifetime (and yet also like no time at all, what with time moving in that funny clichéd way that it always seems to favor at the worst possible times), until Arthur tugged out of Eames and lay down beside him. Each was thoroughly spent, but neither really cared.
They lay there quietly, basking in the silence in the room, ignoring the noise of the city outside. Eames was close to drifting off into sleep until Arthur began to speak.
“What made you so worried in the first place, Sean?”
“I…. I don’t know exactly. It was nothing in particular. Just a general… feeling. You are… well, you’re you. Arthur Sims, point man and perfectionist. You could have any person you want in this world, man or woman, yet for some reason, you chose me. And I‘ve never been a big believer of that ‘opposites attract’ rubbish.”
“Before we got together, you were a bit of a nomad, no?”
“You could say that.”
“And I’m sure you have seen and done it all, haven’t you?”
“And then some, yes.”
“Well, you traded all of that adventure, the freedom, the promiscuity,” they shared a small chuckle there, “You traded it all to settle down with me. Don’t you think that speaks volumes for you as a person? Because it does to me, and I’d say that I’m damn lucky to have you.”
“Well, when you put it like that, I guess I can’t help but see your point.”
“I’m very glad. So, do you believe me now, Sean, when I say that you should trust me? Because I am not going anywhere, not ever. I‘m not letting you run off, either, even when things do get tough, even when we push each other to the very edge of sanity, or feel like jumping off it ourselves.”
“Well, hopefully we won't be finding our limits any time soon, but I concur. Very eloquently spoken, by the way. You should author greeting cards.”
Arthur laughed and then suddenly began to fidget.
“What on God’s green earth are you doing, darling? You’re going to ruin a perfectly poignant moment.”
“I do believe I have a bargain to which I must comply.” He wriggled until Eames could easily reach his hair, although the resulting accidental jabs to Eames’s ribs may not have been worth the latter part of the deal. Ouch.
“Ah. Indeed you do.” Eames chuckled and sank his hand into the sweaty, messy tangle of hair atop Arthur’s head. Whom was he kidding? Any bruise was worth it; he truly lived for moments such as these. “But I’d best not hear you snoring.”
Author: crazyeverafter
Rating: PG-13 for vague smut.
Word Count: 8k+
Disclaimer: Nolan owns, I'm just playing in the sandbox dreamscape.
Spoilers/Warnings: OOC (minutely). Vague smut & a vulnerable Eames. Parentheses & italics = Eames's thoughts.
Summary: Eames wonders what it is that allows him to keep Arthur.
Congratulations, Ariadne & Jensen, read the banner draped along the far wall; the same wall upon which Sean Eames was currently leaning, champagne glass in hand (they’d not offered anything stronger), as he listened to some nameless idiot drone on and on about things for which Eames could not possibly care less. Not a moment too soon, the small crowd of party guests parted almost as if cued to do so, and Eames caught a sanity-inducing glimpse of Arthur. The man stood across the room, speaking animatedly to Ariadne and her new fiancée, Jensen, a former-military communications technician she had met during a job in Palo Alto, California. He himself was no stranger to the less-than-legal lifestyle, and he never grew tired of Ariadne’s vast curiosity; they unquestionably worked as a couple, and not a single person could have been happier about the upcoming nuptials. Well, not a single person besides Ariadne’s father. Eames suggested that the team plant the idea in Mr. Douglas’s head that he absolutely adored his future son-in-law. Unfortunately, Cobb shot the idea down immediately; no one ever let Eames have any fun.
Eames drew his tired eyes back to Arthur’s slender frame. His gaze effortlessly drifted from Arthur’s impeccably slicked-down hair, past his impeccably dressed body to his impeccably shined shoes and then back again, stopping this time to stare at the man’s countenance. A sincere smile graced his features, and Eames felt a swell of love and possessiveness puff up his chest. At the same time, he felt a small lump grow at the base of his throat. There were so many things about Arthur that he happened to love and adore (not to mention the man himself), so many things that would forever hold both Eames’ attention and his heart. There was no doubt in his mind that Arthur was the other half to his soul (and God, did that sound bloody cheap and pathetic, but it was the most important truth he had ever told). However, Eames could not be sure the same held true for Arthur. For Arthur, who was obsessive and compulsive, but also one of the kindest people to ever walk the earth. He could kick your arse if you required such, but if you instead required a shoulder to cry upon, he could provide that just as easily. He was perfect by no means, but for all Eames cared, he may as well have been. Eames, on the other hand, was quite a different story. He was a professional liar and cheat. He gambled. He drank. He swore. He had more vices than redeeming qualities, and he was not sure that would ever change (he was quite certain that it never would, actually). What is was that had possessed Arthur to stay with him this long, he could not be sure. He was certain, though, that there was no good reason for Arthur to do so. Arthur deserved much better and should want much better….
Damn it, Eames. Are you actually complaining about this? Get hold of yourself, you nutter. Just shut up and enjoy the party as you’re meant to do.
Eames shook himself, both literally and figuratively, and turned to the man who was currently speaking at him. Giving him a faux bow, he said, “It’s been lovely speaking with you, but I’m afraid my love life beckons,” and walked away before he could be stopped. He crossed the room quickly, pausing only once to side-step the adorable little girl running around in front of him, his dance partner from earlier in the evening, Jensen’s niece. A roguish grin fell onto Eames’s lips as he came to stand directly behind Arthur, who by now was standing alone. He placed his hands on the man’s waist, but went no farther. Unfortunately, they were in public, and though that had not exactly stopped them before, this was Ari’s party; not even Eames lacked decorum when it came to his co-workers, his friends. Gently, and inconspicuously, though, he brushed his pelvis into Arthur’s ass. Arthur’s back stiffened at the unexpected touch, and Eames leaned forward to whisper into his ear, “Sorry, darling. Bloody waiter bumped into me.” Well, maybe he lacked a little decorum. Arthur turned to face him, and Eames prepared for the drama. Instead, Arthur did not seem upset at all. In fact, he actually looked… happy.
“How many glasses of champagne have you had, love? You’re actually smiling by choice.”
“Miracles happen. Further proof would be the fact that you are actually wearing clothes that match. Now, if only you’d learn to do that without my help.”
“You can’t simply learn things like that. For example, paisley is an acquired taste.”
“Did you acquire it from a flea market?” Arthur drily replied.
“Oh, pet. You kill me. You know you would miss my usual wardrobe if ever I began to dress ‘more sensibly’.”
“Miss it? Impossible. I’m fairly certain that most of your shirts would be visible from space.”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re incredibly sexy when you show off that dazzling wit of yours?”
“Yes,” he answered without hesitance.
“Oh. Well, then,” Eames said, taking a step back from Arthur. “I guess you don’t need to hear it from me.”
Suddenly, Arthur’s hands were at Eames’ lapels, pulling him closer once more, their faces nearly touching.
“I never said that.”
“Ahem. Mr. Eames, Mr. Sims. If you’d please save your canoodling for later, it would be greatly appreciated.” Cobb’s voice came booming from the speakers placed around the room. Arthur blushed furiously and attempted to leap back from Eames. Eames was not having any of that, though; he grabbed Arthur, kissed him full on the mouth (“One for the road, darling“), and then released him as he finally turned to Cobb.
“Carry on, please, Dom.”
“Thank you, Mr. Eames, for your permission. How very gracious of you…. Now, since the peep show is over, it‘s time for the toasts to be made. Who wants to go first?”
Yusuf volunteered, and he kept his speech short and sweet, which was not necessarily the case with the subsequent speeches (these people knew not when to shut the hell up). It seemed as if each and every person in the room took a turn at the microphone on the makeshift stage, all blathering on in the same wistful, romantic tone and basically repeating the person that came before (it was a bloody bore).
Eventually, it was time for the rest of the “dream team” (Yusuf’s term) to give the microphone a whirl. Cobb kept his toast simple, (a heartfelt “I’ve been in your shoes, and so I want to give you the same advice I got: ’Life is short. Be patient, be forgiving, be happy, and above all, be in love’”), but not as simple as Arthur, who took the next turn (“I wish you both the best”). Eames felt an easily explicable urge to liven things up as he climbed upon the stage and brandished the microphone like a seasoned stand-up comedian. He didn‘t stray too far from the popular well wishes until the closing line of his speech: “I wish you both sixty years of joyful rugrats, inalienable happiness, and mind-blowing sex.” The room went silent for a moment before erupting into laughter, both at the words and Ariadne’s reaction (she blushed more violently than Arthur did, and that truly was saying something). Eames reveled in the applause he received, but quickly hopped off the stage to hug Ariadne and shake Jensen’s hand, the former action meant as an apology, and the latter as congratulations.
Finally, after every speech had been spoken and every tear shed, after each laugh was laughed and the sound of clinking champagne glasses began to grate on the nerves of every guest, the party was over; it was time to go home. Blissful, peaceful, quiet, cozy home. Eames and Arthur grabbed their jackets and bid goodbye to the others in the room, promising to meet up again soon (and meet again they would, at Jensen’s spectacular stag party). Eames led Arthur out of the small house, and into a waiting cab that he’d phoned just minutes before. On the way home, they shared small talk of the party and the impending wedding and of the inevitable meltdowns beforehand. Mostly, though, there was nothing to fill the backseat of the taxi but companionable silence. The city lights blazed outside, shining almost painfully brightly in the darkness, and each man stared out his window until, finally, their hotel sprang up in front them.
“Alright then, here we go. Home again, home again.”
“I can see that, Sean, thank you.”
“Just trying to be helpful, love. As always.”
The cab pulled away, and Eames danced up the stairs to the hotel door, which he held open. Arthur followed slowly, lacking the same spring in his own step that Eames had in his, and pulled the room key from his pocket. They entered the lush lobby of the hotel (only the best for Arthur), nodded politely to the crotchety old night watchman, and walked directly to the gorgeous but archaic elevator (the slowest in existence, likely) without speaking. Once safely inside, Eames sidled innocently over to Arthur. Slowly, he pulled him into an embrace and pressed a suggestive kiss to his lips, hoping for an encouraging response. No dice. Not only did Arthur only just return the kiss, he barely reacted at all. Well, not aside from a condescending comment. Of course.
“Didn’t get your elevator-kink satisfied last week, Mr. Eames?”
“Didn’t get the stick removed from your arse last week, Mr. Sims?”
“Nope. Thought that was just another kink of yours.”
Eames leaned back against the wall of the elevator and laughed.
“Touché.”
“It’s nothing personal, I promise. I’m just tired,” Arthur stepped forward to rest his head on Eames’ shoulder and yawned.
“Oh. Well, that’s completely understandable, darling,” came the easy lie. It was not that he thought Arthur was lying; he had every right to be tired. Still, though, the rejection formed a hot knot in Eames’ gut. How he hated what this man had done to him. He had reduced him to a quivering bundle of nerves and emotion. He had made him… human.
Arthur sighed quietly and picked his head up to look into Eames’s eyes.
“Don’t lie to me, Sean.”
“Who says I‘m-”
“I do. I‘ve known you plenty long enough to tell. You aren’t as skilled as you think.”
“Hmm. That’s not what you said last night, pet….” Arthur just stared at him, the expression of vague exasperation on his face conveying more meaning than any words ever could.
The elevator doors slid open with a cheerful chime and Arthur led the way into the hall. The rich gold carpeting of the hallway moved easily under two pairs of well-shined shoes as Eames followed him to their room (number five-hundred twenty-eight, quite ironically). Arthur unlocked the door and swept it open in one swift movement. In the next, he took off his jacket (wrinkle-free, even now, at the end of a long day) and arranged it carefully along the back of a hideous easy chair that marred the room’s otherwise banal (boring) décor. Eames followed suit with his own jacket, placing it on the plain wooden chair that sat tucked beneath a small writing desk against the wall, though his actions were more careless. His shoes were next to go, as he slid them off and kicked them nearer to the chair, out of the way enough for now (Arthur will be moving them to the closet anyway, once he’s awake and sober enough for his brain to begin acting on its many varied compulsions).
“Mmm, much better,” he sighed, stretching his arms above his head, reaching as high as was possible, which was fairly high, actually.
“Sean-” Arthur began. He was perched on the edge of the bed, quietly removing his own shoes.
“I told you, Arthur: it’s fine. We’ve had ourselves a long day; you bloody well should be tired.”
Arthur placed his watch on the small bedside table before padding over to Eames and positioning himself directly in front of him. He was shorter now without shoes, though, normally, their heights were nearly equal, and Eames found himself looking downward to meet Arthur’s eyes. If not for the uncertainty gnawing at him, he may have found the situation amusing. In fact, though he was not necessarily feeling amused, he acted as though he was. It was the simplest thing he could think to do.
“It hasn’t been that long of a day. We’ve suffered much worse, believe me.”
“Tiredness isn’t relative, love. When you’re tired, you’re tired.”
“And when you’re upset, you lie.”
“…”
“It’s almost as if you are afraid to upset me, Sean.”
“What? I upset you all the bloody time.”
“No, you annoy me all the bloody time. You never anger me.”
“And for some reason you’re complaining about that? By the way, never say bloody again. It's just... not right.”
Arthur opened his mouth as if to speak, but faltered. His brow crinkled as he tried to think of how to translate his feelings into the correct words. He licked his lips, pursed them together, and placed a hand on each side of Eames face, as if anchoring himself there for fear of falling away. Eames did his best to meet Arthur’s gaze, but he found it difficult. Maybe he really wasn’t as skilled a liar as he liked to think; this man could see right through him, seemed to be gazing deep into him even now. The feeling was comforting in some ways, a feeling that screamed home; in other ways, though, the feeling was like cold steel twisting around his stomach, pushing his secrets (his fears) to the surface, where they floated openly for everyone to see and dissect.
“No, not complaining, exactly. I just, I want you to tell me honestly how you‘re feeling. I hate that you act unaffected by something I do, or something I say, that bothers you. Or, alternatively, by something that I fail to do or say that nonetheless leads to you becoming upset.”
“I understand that, but I’ve told you that I wasn’t bothered. Multiple times, now.”
Arthur dropped his hands and then rolled his eyes (because that‘s what Arthur does when someone to whom he is speaking happens to let their idiocy shine through). Sometimes, Eames forgot just how young the man was; times like these, though, he was quickly reminded. Arthur was pacing now, making small circles in front of Eames, who was starting to get dizzy just by watching the man’s movements. Once he spoke again, he paused in his movements, and the aura of an old soul returned, safe once more in its usual place.
“Yes, but you’re lying. I can see right through you, Sean. You said you weren’t bothered, but the look in your eyes- I can tell I hurt you. And I hate it, because despite the fact that you’re often more irritating than a horde of rabid houseflies, I happen to care about you. You know what else I hate?” With his final sentence, he began to pace again.
“Frozen waffles. Cheap shoes. Anything having to do with basketball or tennis,” Eames began rattling off some of Arthur’s pet peeves. He had a whole list ready to go, and he had only just begun when Arthur interrupted with a cock of his head and a blistering sarcastic smile.
“Cute,” he paused, standing still, “But this is not the time.” And again with the pacing. “What I also hate is the fact that you felt you had to lie to me in the first place. I’m certainly not asking that you pick a fight over each and every displeasing thing that I say, but I am asking for your complete honesty.”
Eames reached out and hurriedly stopped Arthur in his tracks by grabbing hold of his thin shoulders.
“All right! All right. Please stop pacing now; it has nearly made me sick watching you go in those little circles. How does that do for complete honesty?”
“Eames. Sean, look at me.” Arthur pulled him close and wrapped his arms around his waist. Eames melted into the touch, throwing every sensation but this warm one to the wind.
“Yes?”
“Talk to me.”
“Not to state the obvious, but have I not been doing just that?”
Swagger, machismo, sarcasm…. Armor. That is to what his facade boiled down.
“…”
“Fine. Let us move to the bed, though, shall we? It’s exhausting just standing here this way.”
Arthur nodded in concession and stepped aside, gesturing for Eames to move. He did so immediately, bounding over to the bed and flopping upon it facedown, destroying in three seconds the decorating that had likely taken at least fifteen minutes to complete. He rolled to his side and rested his head on his hand as he watched his lover come nigh. Arthur took a more casual approach (the only time Arthur could be considered casual, really), striding steadily forward, removing his vest and belt, placing them on the chair with his jacket, and then carefully sliding onto the bed beside Eames, all without dislodging a single hair from its perfectly styled position atop his head.
“That’s rather infuriating, you know?”
“What is?”
“Your hair.”
“… My hair? How so?”
“Well, multiple ways, really. First of all, there is the fact that you could likely stand at the edge of a category five hurricane without earning yourself a single flyaway strand. I‘m a tad jealous, if truth be told.” Arthur scoffed, but let Eames continue. “Secondly, there’s the fact that your hair always looks so bloody touchable. I want to run my hands through it, just because I can. However, you would likely kill me if ever I mussed it up. Maybe that’s part of the thrill, actually,” he laughed quietly, and the bed shook with the movement.
“You’ve played with my hair plenty of times.”
“Mainly when you’re sleeping.”
“Still, it counts.”
“Oh, hardly. Your reaction is half the fun. You’ve no idea just how much I love the little noises you make…” he trailed off, lost in thought and smiling at the memories playing inside his head. He started as Arthur arbitrarily laughed aloud. The look on his suddenly illuminated face caused Eames to raise his eyebrows, warily quizzical as to what was suddenly so brilliant.
“Well, I do know just how much you love a good bargain, so, I have one for you: you tell me exactly why you’ve been so… agreeable lately, and I’ll let you amuse yourself with my bloody touchable hair all night long. While I’m awake.”
“Oh, tempting offer, darling. But…”
“But?”
Eames sighed. Cue the uneasy pit making its encore deep in his gut. Oh, it would be so bloody simple to tell Arthur what he feared, to tell him how he felt inadequate. He was cheap generic gelatin to the point man’s crème brûlée (and after all, gelatin has nothing to offer to the best thing on the menu). It seemed as though it was inevitable that Arthur would soon realize just how much he was conceding to make this relationship succeed, and he would then therefore realize that Eames might not be worth the trouble after all. To Eames, it felt merely like a waiting game. He gave himself fully to Arthur, because his heart would allow nothing less, but he could not help but worry ceaselessly. He knew that when Arthur finally wised up, his heart would be shattered irreparably. He knew that when Arthur came to his senses, Eames’s world would essentially stop turning, at least for a great while. Maybe it would not be the end of the world, but it would effectively ruin Eames for anyone who might come later, not that he would welcome anyone else in the first place. Still. Arthur had come into Eames’s life as a welcome challenge and nothing more. Slowly, he had become an acquaintance, someone with whom it was acceptable to down a few drinks. Then, after once downing a few drinks too many, Arthur had become the first man that Eames had ever groped in an elevator. The following week was spent in silence, each man hardly daring glance at the other, until the tension came to a head after a late night spent working in too-close quarters. The rest was history, as they said, unforgettable and inalienable history.
Eames was staring intensely towards and picking at an invisible thread on the wrinkled duvet covering the bed. His words came quietly, and he mentally chastised himself when they did not come out sounding quite as casual as he had hoped they might.
“I’m afraid you might laugh at what I’ve to say,”
“Just try me,” Arthur soothed.
“All right. We have ourselves a deal, but I want you to listen to me, Arthur. Let me finish with what I have to say before you interrupt me with the answer to all of life’s questions, okay? Otherwise, I just may not be able to say it at all.” Arthur nodded and mimed zipping his lips. “All right. Well, I love you, well and truly. You know that.” Arthur nodded again. “And you also know that I would do anything, be anything, just for you, and that I will be here by your side for as long as you’ll allow.” His tone left no room for questioning; he was merely stating facts. Once more, Arthur nodded (looking more and more like a bobble-head figurine each time he did so). “I hold onto no pretenses when I’m around you. For all the bravado I show in public, particularly on a job, there’s actually just another human being in here,” he rapped playfully on his temple, “And I get just as bloody scared and confused as the rest of the population, believe it or not.”
Eames paused there and took a second to gather his thoughts (bloody hell, this was about to become difficult). He found himself no longer able to look into Arthur’s eyes and rolled onto his back, staring instead at the oft-ignored cream-colored ceiling. He sighed (he was doing that a lot lately; in fact, he was beginning to feel like an abused and unhappy housewife, too scared and meek to speak and left merely to while away the hours sighing her displeasure).
“Arthur?” he called to the ceiling.
“…”
“Arthur.”
“Sorry. Thought I wasn’t allowed to speak.”
“Arthur,” he intoned, finally turning to look at the man.
“Yes?” It was now Eames’s turn to roll his eyes, and he did so immediately before returning his gaze to the ceiling.
“… Say we go on another job with Cobb and he hires a new team member…. And let us say that this team member happens to be incredibly attractive and highly intelligent and… and completely within your league. Tell me, what happens then?”
As Arthur was silently contemplating his answer, Eames was fighting the urge to vomit; he had never been more scared in his life. His heart beat as rapidly as a hummingbird’s (probably even more rapidly) and every prayer he had ever learned as a child began to scroll brokenly through his head. For good measure, because he needed all the help he could get at this moment, he even wrote some new ones, making false promises (oh, but how he believed at that very moment) to a God with whom he was rarely on speaking terms, asking in return something oh-so-simple: a response from-
“We buy another old and ragged chair for the warehouse, and maybe, just maybe, Cobb eventually gets laid…. Or Yusuf…. Maybe even Saito, if he ever comes around again…. I guess it depends. Is this new team member picky?”
The calming relief washed over Eames like a waterfall over rocks, and it was more a million times more quenching than a tanker full of water after a seven-month trip to the center of a torturous desert. Laughter bubbled from his chest and escaped through his lips, building in volume until he was certain the neighbors would wake. He was also fairly certain that his cackling had quite the maniacal edge to it, but this, too, he found difficult to be bothered with at the moment. Soon, Arthur joined in at a much lower volume, though he was laughing more at Eames’s joy than at the words that had been spoken. He hoped that Eames would finally get the picture, would finally realize that he was absolutely perfect for Arthur in every important way (and in most of the not-so-important ways, too). Arthur was not going anywhere, and he did not want Eames disappearing either.
Eames, who still was lying on his back and shaking with the occasional burst of hysterical laughter, felt the bed wiggle as Arthur slowly crept up beside him. He propped an elbow on Eames’s chest, and lowered his face until their lips were very nearly brushing. Eames sobered up immediately as a very different heat began spreading through his gut, threading itself into every fiber and nerve ending his body possessed. Quite suddenly he felt alive. Whole. Happy. Horny.
“And as far as my ‘league’ is concerned, well…. It is filled with people just like me. And I don’t think I could handle another me.” Arthur whispered these last words as one hand snaked its way down Eames’s chest and stomach and went to work on his belt.
“I doubt anyone could, darling,” Eames breathed. Even before he could inhale again, Arthur’s lips were on his, effectively shutting down all functions of his brain (the one upstairs) that required actual thought. Just as Eames's empty lungs began to ache, Arthur’s mouth left his own and began trailing kisses along his jaw and neck. He gasped for air, but the breath was cut short and became a groan as Arthur's hand finally conquered Eames’s belt and made its way beneath his pants. Arthur's other hand busied itself unbuttoning Eames's shirt. Eames might have been of assistance had hot, wet lips not been accosting each and every inch of his burning skin, skin that was being revealed at an achingly slow pace. Yet despite this, and many other delicious distractions, Eames felt a sudden burst of clarity and realized that this night would not be nearly as fun if Arthur was allowed to remain so fully clothed. Quickly, he sat up to remedy that situation, but before he got the chance, he was pushed by Arthur to the head of the bed. Their lip-to-lip contact never once wavered. In their frenzy, though, bed pillows were tossed aside without a care (the bedside lamp nearly followed suit, but Arthur‘s skills for multi-tasking apparently knew no bounds). Skin encountered skin as mismatched clothing hit the floor, where it would lay forgotten until the morning (if they were even sated by daybreak, that was, and at this point, whether they would be or not was anyone’s guess).
“Arthur,” Eames panted. “Arthur, please. Please.”
The drawer of the bedside table rattled as Arthur rummaged blindly through it, his hand seeking the familiar bottle of lubricant amidst the other junk that the drawer contained.
“Remind me to clean out this drawer later,” he whispered against Eames’s ear, his prize successfully located and the drawer safely closed.
“It’s my bloody drawer. I’ll leave it as messy as I would-” Eames groaned as Arthur’s fingers abruptly entered him, stretching and preparing him for their lovemaking. “Oh, bloody hell,” he groaned, grasping for hold on Arthur’s hips and clutching what little he found. “If I don’t feel you inside of me within the next four seconds, I’ll never last.”
“Always so pushy, Mr. Eames.”
“I love you too much to kill you, Mr. Sims, but you surely do make the notion seem appealing sometimes.”
Arthur responded with actions rather than words when he swiftly entered Eames, who could not help the throaty moan that escaped his lungs. There was a minute tinge of pain that colored the pleasure, but Arthur stilled, and Eames took the time to relax and adjust to the feeling (and oh, what a feeling it was). As Arthur slowly began to move within him, Eames sat up as best he could and pulled the man down to meet him. Their lips touched and it seemed as though each man was trying to devour the other before Arthur slowly pulled away. He was close to completion, Eames could tell, and Eames himself was not far behind.
“Sean,” Arthur whispered against his ear, his words coming in uneven lurches, “You don’t have to worry any more. It is always going to be you that I love. You are unforgettable, irreplaceable. Je ne regrette rien, as they say. Nothing.” And with one final thrust and a touch of his hand, he brought them both to completion. Afterwards, they did not move, save for the heaving of their chests. They lay together for what seemed like a lifetime (and yet also like no time at all, what with time moving in that funny clichéd way that it always seems to favor at the worst possible times), until Arthur tugged out of Eames and lay down beside him. Each was thoroughly spent, but neither really cared.
They lay there quietly, basking in the silence in the room, ignoring the noise of the city outside. Eames was close to drifting off into sleep until Arthur began to speak.
“What made you so worried in the first place, Sean?”
“I…. I don’t know exactly. It was nothing in particular. Just a general… feeling. You are… well, you’re you. Arthur Sims, point man and perfectionist. You could have any person you want in this world, man or woman, yet for some reason, you chose me. And I‘ve never been a big believer of that ‘opposites attract’ rubbish.”
“Before we got together, you were a bit of a nomad, no?”
“You could say that.”
“And I’m sure you have seen and done it all, haven’t you?”
“And then some, yes.”
“Well, you traded all of that adventure, the freedom, the promiscuity,” they shared a small chuckle there, “You traded it all to settle down with me. Don’t you think that speaks volumes for you as a person? Because it does to me, and I’d say that I’m damn lucky to have you.”
“Well, when you put it like that, I guess I can’t help but see your point.”
“I’m very glad. So, do you believe me now, Sean, when I say that you should trust me? Because I am not going anywhere, not ever. I‘m not letting you run off, either, even when things do get tough, even when we push each other to the very edge of sanity, or feel like jumping off it ourselves.”
“Well, hopefully we won't be finding our limits any time soon, but I concur. Very eloquently spoken, by the way. You should author greeting cards.”
Arthur laughed and then suddenly began to fidget.
“What on God’s green earth are you doing, darling? You’re going to ruin a perfectly poignant moment.”
“I do believe I have a bargain to which I must comply.” He wriggled until Eames could easily reach his hair, although the resulting accidental jabs to Eames’s ribs may not have been worth the latter part of the deal. Ouch.
“Ah. Indeed you do.” Eames chuckled and sank his hand into the sweaty, messy tangle of hair atop Arthur’s head. Whom was he kidding? Any bruise was worth it; he truly lived for moments such as these. “But I’d best not hear you snoring.”