yesterday I got so old I felt like I could die.
Desperate Romantics
Arthur/Eames, NC-17, prompt: " Arthur and Eames have been in relationship for years, but neither want to admit it first."
4205 words
--
Life takes a sudden lull after the Fischer job and Arthur starts with the realization that he's missed out on a lot of things.
When he comes back to his apartment on Broadway, there are a 172 messages waiting for him on his machine ( most of them are from his mother who wants to know if he'll be in town for Christmas and if he is still seeing that girl from college ) his potted bamboo shoot has died, and everything in the fridge has passed its expiration date.
Arthur scavenges around the cabinets for anything salvageable but comes up, five minutes later, empty-handed save for a can of Campbell's Mushroom soup. He grabs a pen and makes a list of things he'll need in the future: vegetables, fruits, milk, bread, and is on the fifth item (fish) when the doorbell rings.
Arthur wouldn't have bothered answering it if an obnoxious knock didn't follow. He heaves a harried sigh, puts down his pen on the table, next to his grocery list, and crosses the room in several strides.
"Hello, love."
It's Eames.
It doesn't take much deliberation for Arthur to shut the door in his face.
--
Fifteen minutes later, Arthur lets him inside anyway, despite any lingering doubts he may have on Eames' ability to keep himself as unobtrusive as possible. Eames makes himself comfortable on the sofa, watching the news with his legs crossed at the ankle, while Arthur works dilligently on his grocery list in the kitchen which is the farthest from Eames his apartment will allow him.
There are so many things to account for, Arthur realizes belatedly when he narrows down his list to the basic essentials of food and drink (and new curtains). He's been gone awhile, longer than should be considered normal, and doesn't have the slightest clue what to do now that Cobb has sworn off the job and the lifestyle that came along with it. Still, he has enough money to sustain himself for the timebeing, but if he is too frivolous with his spending money, he may need to consider employment.
"Is that a grocery list?" Eames says from the fridge. He's eating a sandwich and gingerly picks up Arthur's notepad between two fingers, studying Arthur's neat handwriting with a critical eye. "Milk. Potatoes. Curtains. What are you, Arthur, a hermit?"
"Where did you get the sandwich?"
Eames shrugs. "Bought it on the way here." He crumples Arthur's list and tosses it over his shoulder.
"Eames--" Arthur says warningly, shooting up from his seat to scrabble after his meticulously penned grocery list, but Eames grins and grabs him by the wrist before he manages to leave his seat.
"You need real food, Arthur." he says, and his eyes are soft and oddly tender when he sets his sandwich aside and grabs Arthur's other wrist, clasping it in his other hand. "You need meat, and yogurt and tofu, and tea, and cereal. None of those bran flakes either. You need sugar. Look at yourself." He clicks his tongue, dragging his eyes over Arthur's torso in a way that makes Arthur feel slightly violated. "Tsk. It's a shame your arse isn't as plump as I would like it to be."
"You disgust me sometimes," Arthur says, batting Eames' hand away from the general direction of his posterior, but it surprises him when Eames' hands wind up around his waist, press against the small of his back to pull him between Eames' spread knees.
"I know." Eames laughs, sniffing when he leans against the edge of the kitchen counter so that he's half-sitting on it and looking up at Arthur whose steely gaze would've deterred the faint of heart, but no, not Eames because his thumb is hooked into Arthur's beltloop and tugging slightly. "But only sometimes, right? I don't always disgust you, do I?" He looks hopeful.
Arthur grunts. "Unfortunately," he says, and when Eames laughs again and starts rubbing his hands up and down Arthur's sides, Arthur realizes with dawning horror that this is actually more or less true.
Jesus, he thinks, and kisses the bastard already.
--
Shopping for groceries isn't particularly grueling but it is a task that Arthur hardly ever takes on unless it's for Cobb and Cobb has a pre-written list of things for him to buy and then be off with.
Arthur doesn't understand where the embarrassment stems from. It's not the act itself that causes him considerable grief, but the helplessness he feels not knowing what to purchase in order to satisfy a particular need. He suppposes it's a good thing that Eames is here, despite the unncessary commentary on the politcal philosophies of capitalism, if not to push the shopping cart from aisle to aisle then to provide him entertainment.
Besides which, Eames seems to know what he's doing, navigating his way through the store with certain pomp and dignity. They get into a heated argument about the relative merits of wheat bread vs. white bread - Eames is all about the white bread because while it has more calories, it tastes better, and Arthur's stand is that some things are only deceptively good on the surface - but that quickly dies down after Eames deposits a box of textured condoms on their teeteering pile of groceries.
"Perhaps once in awhile," Eames says. "You have to allow yourself to be happy, mm, pet?" He flicks Arthur in the ear and with fierce animal reaction, Arthur rubs a hand over it, scowling at Eames' back. At the cashier, they whip out their wallets at the same time.
Arthur clicks his tongue when Eames hands over his credit card. "My, my, aren't we feeling charitable today."
"Come on now," says Eames, pocketing his wallet, "It's the least I can do for you, isn't it?" He grins, and in a fit of momentary affection, Arthur is seized with the ridiculous urge to punch him in the shoulder, gently of course, but steels himself just in time, cracking his knuckles.
In the parking lot, they load the groceries into the trunk of Arthur's car. Eames slips into the passenger seat, sighing when he sinks against the soft, leather interior. They are caught in the thick of rush hour traffic on the way back. Arthur stares morosely at the speedometer, then back at the congestion of yellow taxis on the road.
"So how about it then?" Eames says, reaching over to muss Arthur's hair. "Those condoms I bought, mm?"
Arthur schools his features into a look of bewilderment, because the suggestion completely comes from out of nowhere, but he lets it sink for a while, mulling it over.
He makes a thoughtful noise.
--
Miraculously, they make it back to the apartment in no time at all. Arthur toes off his shoes at the doorway and in a flurry of movement and an accident involving a three feet marble replica of Venus de Milo in the living room, they shuck off their clothes, Eames walking Arthur backwards over plush carpeting and crinkling bags of groceries on the floor.
"Oh," says Eames when he steps on a piece of lettuce. He peels it off his foot before kicking off his trousers, releasing his ankle from the cuff with a merry little jiggle.
The apartment is partially a mess, a tableu of half-spilled purchases on the floor and a terrible set of floral curtains that Eames had picked out earlier coiled at the foot of the bed, and in the back of Arthur's mind he knows he'll hate himself for all of this but he can't think of anything beyond the ache in his belly and the heat in his cock.
"Come on," he grumbles, rolling over to his elbows. He sighs when the familiar width of Eames' fingers push into him deliberately, applying pressure in all the right places. Arthur raises himself higher on his elbows, wriggling a bit to direct Eames appropriately. He sighs deeply, eyelids lowering, when Eames takes the hint and begins to work him open in slow, deep, rolls of his fingers, tugging at his ear with his teeth.
"Fuck." Arthur's knees wobble a bit and he nearly collapses face-first on the mattress. He grits his teeth when Eames takes out his fingers and is about to bark out a complaint when Eames lines himself up against his ass. His skin thrums in anticipation and he pants yes yes yes under his breath, sighing when Eames sinks inside in one smooth stroke, Eames' chest pressed tightly over the sweaty curve of Arthur's back.
It feels strange to be having sex with a condom on after all these years. Eames starts to move with minute little thrusts of his hips that make Arthur's cock ache hard and heavy, steady ins and outs, punctuated with a little hitch when Eames attempts to screw himself deeper or roll his hips.
By the time Eames picks up his pace, Arthur is writhing and moaning and eagerly pushing back. Arthur braces himself against the headboard, nails digging into the lacquered wood as Eames fucks into him in deep, even thrusts.
It all goes straight to Arthur's cock but something still feels a little off. He can't put his finger on what it is exactly because honest to god, it's good sex, and he hasn't been properly fucked in months so he doesn't have any right to compain.
Eames pulls him against his chest and buries his face into the side of his neck. The bristles of his stubble scratch Arthur's skin, thick and gritty, and Arthur moans at the contact, clutches the side of Eames' neck to keep him in place as he rides Eames' lap and moves his hips in frenetic, consecutive bursts, thighs straining.
Arthur comes a few seconds later, shuddering. He rolls onto his stomach, grunting into the mattress when Eames lets him go and pulls out with a muttered noise of satisfaction. Arthur moans at the loss of contact and idly watches Eames as he ties a knot around the used condom, wrapping it in a wad of tissues on the bedside table.
Afterward, Eames sits on the edge of the bed, completely naked, and pushes strands of Arthur's hair around, mussing it up.
"I like it better without the condoms," admits Arthur begrudgingly, smothering a yawn into the covers.
"Fancy that," laughs Eames and then presses his lips together quickly when Arthur shoots him a look.
--
"Something bizarre happened today as I was leaving," Eames says when he arrives later that night. He looks around the room, at the half-burnt apple pie on the table, and what seems to be the shoddy remains of a cooked fowl on the kitchen counter, stopping short at the doorway.
Arthur is standing in the middle of the kitchen, spatula raised in a gesture of defeat, a spot of tomato sauce in his otherwise impeccable dress shirt.
"Uh," Arthur says, eloquently. He doesn't have an excuse for this so he puts down the spatula and smoothes the imaginary wrinkles from his suit.
"Huh." Eames responds. He does an about face, walks out the door, then saunters back in, and heads straight for the apple pie. He pokes it with a wary finger. The crust jiggles, the dough deflates, before crumbling into floury debris at the bottom of the pan.
Arthur feels a brief kick of embarrassment for this, at his attempt to make dinner, his cheeks burning in righteous indignation when Eames raises a brow at him and lifts the end of his pinstriped apron.
"So you cooked dinner." Eames says slowly, rubbing his fingers through the material of the apron. "For me?"
"For us." Arthur corrects him, and then makes a pained noise when he realizes his mistake. "No, not at all. For myself."
"Right." Eames' says. His tone employs a singsong quality that makes Arthur feel slightly uneasy on his feet, nervous. "And I suppose that's why the table is set for two, then, isn't it? So you could have dinner by yourself."
"Yes." Arthur affirms, edging away until he's backed up against the kitchen sink. Eames simpers at him, tugging him forward by his apron and into the space between his knees. Arthur, however, because he'll have none of this soppy nonsense, doesn't budge and just shoves Eames off without another thought, clamping a hand over Eames' mouth when he swoops down for a kiss.
"Keep it in your pants until after dinner, please?" Arthur smiles tightly.
"Good God!" Eames gasps, voice muffled. "And not even a kiss to help stave off loneliness until then?" He throws his hands dramatically over his chest in a "you wound me" gesture while Arthur points him to the general direction of the hall. "Wash up. I'd rather not think about where your hands have been."
"Oho," Eames chuckles, waggling his eyebrows. "You know where these hands have been, darling, and what these hands are capable of. Frankly, I'm surprised you've managed to keep your knees locked together while I manfully pressed you up against the kitchen sink. Weaker men have thrown themselves at my feet and begged me to take them against various horizontal surfaces. Desks, for example. Breakfast tables."
"Eames," sighs Arthur, mouth doing a funny little twitch. "Out of my kitchen. Now."
Eames grins and shuffles off, but not before giving him a jovial salute.
Arthur ignores him. He twirls his pasta around the tines of his fork throughout the entire course of their meal, during which he foils all of Eames' attempts to make eye contact and keeps Eames' foot from venturing up the front of his leg.
"It's good," says Eames fifteen minutes later, around a mouthful of burnt duck. He swallows, grimacing, and the absolute discomfort in his face fills Arthur with masochistic glee which he doesn't bother hiding behind his flute of wine. Arthur allows himself a small smile when Eames catches his eye across the table.
"Congratulations," Eames says, putting down his fork. "You have managed to not only successfully give me dyspepsia but also win your way into my stomach with your excellent culinary skills." He pats his belly, looking slightly ill, but manages to school his features into a look of total bliss.
"Such is my life," Arthur says, not without a hint of irony, and toasts to that.
--
"Arthur."
Arthur grunts, blinking at the numbers flashing on the bedside table. Didn't they just roll off each other five minutes ago? His back is still a little sore.
"I'm closed for the night." he grumbles irritably, throwing a pillow over his eyes. "Come back at another time."
"Your neighbors from three floors down," Eames informs him pointedly, throwing a heavy arm across Arthur's waist and resting his chin on Arthrur's shoulder, "have graciously invited us to a potluck this Saturday. I forgot to tell you earlier; I was appalled and inexplicably aroused by the sight of you in an apron." He sounds sheepish.
Arthur backtracks for a second. It takes awhile amidst cushioning half of Eames' body weight on his back and his brain forcing itself to wake. He wriggles a bit for more room but Eames just spreads himself along his back completely, like a persistent mollusk, and clamps his arms tighter around his person.
Arthur gives up with an aggravated sigh. "You mean they invited me, not us."
"No, no, I'm sure there was definitely an us." Eames says, looking supiciously gleeful. "They cornered me on my way up. They say hello, by the way, and wonder why they rarely see you around the building."
Arthur gapes at him for a full minute. "Oh my god." He groans, maneuvering around Eames and freeing his arm from his grasp. He throws it over his eyes, making pained, horrified choking noises in his throat. "No, no. Please tell me you didn't say yes."
"We're bringing tuna casserole," Eames says, "Or curry. I love curry. Saturday, 7 o'clock sharp. We shan't be late."
He buries his face into Arthur's shoulder, kissing the back of his ear and smiling when Arthur groans louder. "It is imperative that we learn to assimilate, darling."
"One of these days I'm going to shoot you." Arthur says. "In the nuts."
Eames winces but laughs as he does. "I'd like to see you try."
"Don't tempt me."
"Don't I always?"
Arthur throws him a look but the corners of his lips twist up into a smirk. "You think you're so clever..."
"Oh, I do, Arthur," Eames grins brilliantly, extracting himself from Arthur's sweaty back to climb on top of him. His face is soft in the half-darkness and his knees trap Arthur in place.
"I do," he says, soft, and rubs his palms up Arthur's shirt, thumbing his nipples through the soft material.
Arthur's cock twitches in interest.
--
The next time Arthur surfaces from the cocoon of blankets, it's already ten in morning, he is missing a good pair of pajama pants, and despite having slept in, he feel strangely tired. He scratches his back. That hurts too, as if he's just spent a good chunk of the evening twisting himself into a pretzel.
Eames materializes in the doorway, as if summoned by Arthur's terrible mood, looking far too cheerful in a fluffy baby blue bathrobe.
"Good morning!" he declares gleefully, padding towards the bed in fuzzy slippers and brandishing a rolled-up copy of the New York Times in his left hand. In another life, they would've been the picture of domesticity but as it stands, Arthur isn't wearing any pants and Eames is essentially just a squatter, overstaying his welcome.
"Where did you get those?" Arthur points to the twin monstrosities covering Eames' feet. Eames looks down, shrugging, as if wearing slippers made out of chunks of synthetic fur, bits of felt, and a random assortment of handicraft items, were no cause for alarm.
"I have my sources," he sniffs, "Coffee?"
Arthur politely declines.
--
The blessed event arrives sooner rather than later. Armed with a potted plant and a scalding bowl of beef stew, they ring the doorbell at 7 o'clock sharp.
Arthur has dressed down to slacks and a grey sweater. Eames is practically jittery with frenetic energy, shifting from one foot to another and smoothing down his tweed jacket every five seconds. His hair is neatly combed, not a strand out of place, and Arthur is vaguely disturbed by the amount of effort he'd put into this.
"Are you wearing cologne?"
"I want to make a good impression on these people." Eames tells him, "Hence the potted plant." He reaches out to wipe something off Arthur's cheek with his thumb, presumably some imaginary spot of dirt, and grins as he straightens his shoulders.
Arthur doesn't respond, although he wants nothing more than to take a small nip of that thumb, maybe muss Eames up a little against the door, because Christ does he look good today, with his pants hugging his ass and his dress shirt partially opened to reveal the broad width of his chest and the strong linework of his tattoos, peeking over the edges of his open collar.
Arthur sighs mournfully, checks his watch for good measure, and rings the doorbell again.
--
Arthur realizes belatedly that he is not wholly equipped to deal with his neighbors.
The evening drags on like a horrible Thanksgiving dinner with his grandparents. Their questions throw him for a loop, dinner is a Smörgåsbord of heart burn-inducing food, and once or twice Arthur is hit on by a couple of married women. And men. He crumples the strips of paper, pocketing a business card in his front pocket just to piss Eames off. It pisses Eames off.
"Did you tell them we were together?" Arthur asks as they climb up the stairs to his floor after the potluck.
For some reason, Eames stiffens and he raises both eyebrows skeptically. "I didn't think it was relevant to their interests," he says slowly. "Why?"
Arthur hesitates. Maybe if he explained it now it wouldn't make a smidgen of sense because he's had a few sips of wine to impair his judgement. They're not monogamous swans, but Arthur is nothing if not loyal, both to Cobb out of respect for what he does in his field of expertise, and Eames who provides Arthur with the necessary distractions to counter the loneliness Arthur sometimes feel at the end of each day.
"Did you tell them?"
"No." Eames says shortly. "I didn't want to deny you the honor."
Arthur shoots him a look, but it dissolves completely at the earnest expression in Eames' face.
"Put down the plant," Arthur sighs, finally. Eames widens his eyes but does as he's told, and it's with little to no fanfare that Arthur grabs him by the sides of his jacket, tucks his shirt back inside his pants and palms the wrinkles from his collar.
It's been a long night for the both of them and Arthur feels a little out of his element. His jaw aches from smiling for extended periods of time, like the worst time he's ever given Eames head. It's a terrible comparison to make but it's also the most appropriate. The level of discomfort is the same and the only difference is that Arthur is left with mingling feelings of resignation and doubt.
"I'm a big boy now, love." Eames laughs, clasping Arthur's wrists and kissing the back of his hands. "No need to fuss over me."
"It's not fussing," Arthur says when he uncurls his fingers and traces the outline of Eames' jaw.
"You looked good tonight." Arthur tells him honestly, unable to help the dark flush that creeps into his face at the admission.
Eames grins but he looks bashfool too, because Arthur rarely doles out compliments unless he is about to shoot you in your dreams. "Thank you. You're not too shabby on the eyes, yourself, you know."
Arthur scoffs. "Shabby?"
"Yes, well," Eames shrugs, grinning widely.
Arthur's lips curl as he takes the stairs two at a time, climbing backwards with a definite swivel in his step and an exagerrated sway of the hips.
"I'll show you shabby," he says, and extends a hand for Eames to take. Eames leaves the potted plant at the foot of the stairs and grabs Arthur's hand.
They run up the flight of stairs and kiss furiously at every landing, slamming into walls and losing a few buttons along the way. They barely make it to the living room. Hell, they barely even make it through the front door.
--
With no future prospects available for the time being, Arthur lets Eames stay for a few days.
It's not so bad as long as Eames continues making himself useful. He's already helped Arthur repaint the spare room ( "Home improvement," Eames calls it, daubing Arthur's cheek with the tip of his paintbrush) and rewired Arthur's internet router.
Eames is as unobtrusive as he promised he was going to be, except when he sings purposefully off-key in the shower and leaves his shoes out in the hall on occasion. Arthur finds that he develops a tolerance for these things over time and that he doesn't really mind Eames' taste in clothes, or the fact that, when Eames shaves, he uses Arthur's razor and hums the chorus to George Michael's Faith in the bathroom mirror.
It's when the two of them are in the laundry room downstairs that it hits Arthur just how long they've been out of work and bumming, so to speak. His muscles aren't as tight as he'd like them to be although he still goes out for hourly runs every morning in between picking up the groceries and drycleaning.
Arthur is wearing a flimsy white undershirt because everything else is in the wash, save his suits which he finds less reason to wear these days. Arthur puts down his pen and tucks the weekend paper under one arm. Eames is hunched on the bench, sorting out his clothes in bags, in a wifebeater and jeans, and an old brown pair of moccassins.
Arthur touches the points of their shoes together to get his attention.
"Is there something you wanted?" Eames grins, flicking his eyes up at him before leaning back on his palms.
Arthur shrugs. "Cobb called the other day."
Eames visibly tenses. "A new job?"
"No," Arthur says, shrugging. "Philippa's turning seven this Saturday. He called to invite us over." He waits for a beat, imagining the cogs in Eames' head turning.
"Us?" Eames repeats sharply, like he's wrapping his mind around the concept. Arthur lets the thought settle in the pit of his stomach where hope and uncertainty intermingle and squirm uncomfortably. Us, he thinks, laughing nervously.
"Are we going then?" asks Eames. His brows are raised in skepticism and curiousity.
Eames said we. "Do you want to?"
Eames shrugs and Arthur hopes that he says the right thing. The corners of Eames' lips twist up into a tiny smile as he climbs to his feet and crowds Arthur against the dryer.
"Yes," he says. "Of course." And then lets Arthur tuck his hands inside his backpockets when he pulls him down for a kiss.
They lock the door.