she only comes when she's on top.
this bed is on fire with passionate love
Arthur/Eames, PG-13, CRACK, prompt: " Arthur is the one obsessed." Based on the song "Laid" by James." although admittedly I listened to the cover by Matt Nathanson on repeat.
huge thank you to my go to bud/my hetersexual fic/life partner bronson for the beta. :>
4601 words
--
It's in El Salvador when things change. They're both tired from a long day of grunt work and building half-baked plans that stop in the middle before coming to fruition that Eames proposes, shortly after Cobb leaves, that they get drunk until they pass out in their own pool of vomit.
"I don't drink," Arthur says.
"At all?"
"I don't drink on the job," Arthur rectifies.
Eames gets him drunk anyway because at 29 Arthur is easy and therefore prone to the occasional slip-up. "Cobb wouldn't mind," he assures Arthur who coils his arm around Eames' shoulders, looking green as they climb their way up the stairs. "I've known him for the longest time. He isn't uptight about these things, trust me."
They end up having sex because Eames' judgment is still impaired by alcohol despite a remarkable ability to retain conscious thought even when highly inebriated. It's a horrendously bad idea to have sex when they're both slurring incomprehensibly and shouting at each other to roll over and take it like a good little bitch, and the sex is uncoordinated at best, their mouths falling on top of each other's eyes and Arthur's elbows and knees digging bruises into Eames' thighs and stomach.
Eames keeps falling asleep pressed against Arthur's side, rutting against the small of his back until he comes, sticky, and falls back asleep to repeat the process.
He wakes up with a terrible hangover to the smell of something mouthwatering cooking in the kitchen. Eames hobbles around for his underwear and slips into a shirt that he leaves partially unbuttoned before blearily navigating his way to the direction of the smell. The apartment that Arthur rents is modest and fully furnished with thick carpets and padded seats and a living room housing a shelf of hardbound books.
Eames does a double take when he sees Arthur making breakfast, with a devastatingly casual air about the whole thing, rumped t-shirt and drawstring pants and all. He is overcome with the sudden urge to kiss him against the kitchen counter but also vomit at the smell of food.
"Er," Eames says, tucking himself into the table. "Don't we have work today? It's 7:15."
Arthur shrugs. "Cobb called," he says, pushing the hair out of his eyes as he turns off the stove and picks up the skillet with an oven mitt-covered hand. "He says it's all right if we miss work today."
"Are you sure? Because that doesn't sound like Cobb at all."
"I'm sure," Arthur assures him, stirring a spoon into his coffee. "Eat up. Does your head still hurt?"
Eames nods and cradles his face in his hand. This bewilderingly pleasant conversation is making his head hurt and it doesn't help that Arthur is looking at him like he's expecting something: Eames' firstborn, his right lung or another go in bed to make up for what was probably the least satisfying sexual experience of his life. Arthur tosses him a bottle of Alka Seltzer which Eames gratefully swallows down with a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.
And it's odd in so many ways that Eames says so around a mouthful of toast and burnt eggs, later. Arthur blinks at him and cocks his head to the side, glancing at him over his copy of the New York Times.
They just had sex last night, Eames thinks, and Arthur's foot is touching his under the table, his toes making quick progression from Eames' ankle to his calf. Eames shakes Arthur's foot off a little because it's been less than 24 hours and they've yet to be on footsie level and the surreptitious glances Arthur is throwing his way are making him slightly uncomfortable.
Arthur raises an eyebrow. "How is it odd?"
"It just is," Eames says, shrugging, slurping on his tea. Arthur looks put out a bit and Eames ducks his head into his cup, pretending to be raptly fascinated with the shape of his cuticles.
He showers later to get rid of the overall heat trapped under his skin but as soon as he steps out of the shower, Arthur is there naked by the doorway, clothes lying in a circle around his feet.
Eames swallows and licks his lip, hand slipping several times against the tile when he tries to brace himself sexily against the wall. Eames doesn't sleep with the same people twice on principle because he hates complications and giving people the wrong idea but he makes Arthur an exception because Arthur is different from all the others - he's a creepy guy sometimes with his quiet, calculating stares and excellent post-hangover culinary skills, but his breath is warm against Eames' thigh and he knows how to work his mouth.
Eames sighs happily and knots his fingers into Arthur's hair.
--
Three weeks later when Eames is on a self-imposed holiday hiding from his enemies in India, he gets a call from Cobb.
"Something's up," Cobb says, and Eames can almost imagine the deep furrow in his brow. "Arthur's been acting different lately ever since that last job in El Salvador. Did you do something?"
"I'm not quite sure what you're implying."
"Eames," Cobb says testily, "Did you fuck him?"
"Hey, hey, language, Cobb! There's no need to be so crass about it." Eames smiles a little, finishing his borboun by the bar and waving the bartender over for a refill. "But yes, I did fuck him. Three times." He snickers gleefully. "The fourth time doesn't count though because he tried to get me to pull on his hair which was just baffling at the time. Why would I want to hurt anyone I'm supposedly pleasuring? Doesn't make a smidgen of sense, really."
"Eames."
"Yeah?"
"Arthur, he's," Cobb trails off and then lets out a long-suffering moan.
"What?" Eames asks, feeling suddenly nervous.
"I think he's keeping tabs on you."
"Why on earth would he do that?"
"He's, uh,"
"Yeah?" Eames presses. There's a long pause before Cobb lets out a shaky laugh and Eames thinks, this can't be good. Five seconds of dramatic pause is long enough without Cobb's own brand of theatrics and heavy breathing.
"He has a crush on you," Cobb finishes, and there's that wryness in his tone that Eames recognizes from the first day they met, "He's smitten, Eames."
"Frankly I find that cute," Eames says although he nearly spills his drink on himself, narrowly missing his mouth.
"Maybe to you, but you see, Arthur never breaks up with the people he's with. I know for a fact he's only been with another man before - a Philosophy student from Cambridge that he met in an online forum. Word on the street is that he died five months after breaking up with Arthur."
"We aren't in a relationshiop, Cobb, so I doubt there's anything to be worried about." Although just to be sure, Eames cups a hand over his mouth and starts speaking in a hushed tone, throwing glances over his shoulder.
"Really," Cobb says.
"Really," Eames says, "I slept with him three, all right, four and a half times. That hardly constitutes a relationship. Although, Arthur did make me breakfast the next morning and I find it oddly endearing that he likes burying his face in my chest after we-"
"Jesus Christ, Eames, I didn't tell you to overshare," Cobb says pissily. "I called to warn you about the potential dangers of leading Arthur on, I didn't need to hear about what sordid things go on in your sex life."
"Anyway, I have to go, I think James just wet himself again. Arthur's in Coasta Rica so you have nothing to worry about at the moment although I suggest keeping yourself scarce. A word of advice: keep it in your pants."
The line closes ominously. Eames stares at his cellphone for a long moment, wondering where Cobb is so he could shoot him in the kneecap.
--
Eames doesn't take Cobb's advice to heart. He knows how notoriously protective Cobb gets sometimes when something of his is threatened by outside forces.
Besides, Eames doubts there's any real truth to his story anyway. Arthur isn't the type to get attached so quickly, especially after just half a day of post-hangover sex with hardly a word passing between them.
Cobb is overreacting. Eames will be fine.
--
In the ensuing months, Eames receives a series of postcards in the mail - in Cape Verde, Beirut, Luxembourg and Wellington. They're all addressed to Mr. Eames and delivered to him by hand but he doesn't think of any them until Arthur shows up in his hotel in Bucharest, waving another postcard in the air - this one is from Barcelona and with a photograph of bull riders taped to the corner.
"What are you doing here?" Eames asks, hand poised over his gun.
Arthur is sitting in the dark by the window, his fingers steepled on his knee.
"I sent you postcards, Eames," Arthur says, cocking his head to the side. "Did you get them?"
"That was you?"
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing," Eames laughs, loosening the top button of his shirt. "How did you know where I was?"
"Research," Arthur says, waving a hand. He walks up to Eames and the cant of his hips strangely hypnotizing. Eames screws his mouth shut when Arthur is close enough and his hand is cupping Eames' cheek.
"Why are you here, Arthur?"
"Sex, of course," Arthur says without shame, "But I also wanted to see how you were doing."
"Romantic," Eames observes, slowly backing up against the door. "Cobb said some things, you know. About you," He checks the room for potential emergency exits.
Arthur lifts an eyebrow. "Really?"
"He said you thought you and I were together, which is, you know," He makes a wobbly gesture with his hand to indicate just how crazy the notion is and completely untrue. Arthur's reaction is immediate: his shoulders stiffen visibly, his nostrils flare, and his fists curl at his sides.
"Er," Eames laughs nervously and rubs Arthur between the shoulder blades to calm him down before he shoots someone in the foot, preferably Eames.
"He's right of course," Eames assures him, "Would you like a drink, darling? I can order room service. I feel a little parched. Bourbon or red wine?"
Arthur shrugs one shoulder and goes back to his perch by the window.
--
When Arthur is asleep, Eames places a collect-call to Cobb.
"I can't help you," Cobb says.
"Why not?"
"I have children, Eames. I don't want to put them in harm's way when I'm the only parent they have left and Miles is suffering from chronic angina. He'll be dead before my kids set foot in high school. It doesn't look good. "
"Are you telling me that you're afraid of Arthur?"
"This conversation never happened," Cobb says hurriedly, "Goodbye."
Eames gapes before tossing the phone into the bin. He scrubs his face angrily and throws himself back to the bed where Arthur is buried under piles of blankets, one foot peeking out in the corner, fast asleep.
Eames watches the steady rise and fall of his back and runs a finger down his spine, raising his eyebrows when Arthur shivers and makes a noise of protest.
"Why is it so important that I become your boyfriend, Arthur? Mm?" he whispers into Arthur's ear, pushing aside sections of his hair. "I'm a moron. You don't want me. I'm a bad person." He wiggles his fingers like he's casting a spell. "You don't want me. You will wake tomorrow morning and leave the hotel and never speak to me ever again!"
Arthur turns over in his sleep.
Eames sighs, retrieving his phone from the bin, and decides to make the most of the evening by smoking on the terrace.
--
Eames goes through dark months - August, September, October - spending less time alone and more money on Arthur, buying expensive gifts to placate his ponderously massive temper and catering to his sexual whimsies often requiring medieval torture devices only available in three museums in the world. Eames loses weight in the process and is generally cranky from lack of sleep but the up side to having a crazy amount of sex is that he now has very good skin and abs of steel.
Eames doesn't hear from Arthur again until later when he calls to ask Eames about articles of clothing he is wearing and if he would like to meet halfway across the world for a brief but satisfying tryst.
"It's two AM, Arthur and you nearly broke my back the last time," Eames says tiredly. "And aren't you banned from ever setting foot in Central Asia after that last stunt you pulled on the Malek job?"
"That was a clerical error. The gun was loaded with three bullets when there was supposed to be just one. And I'm only banned from Turkmenistan and Mongolia."
"Don't forget Uzbekistan," Eames supplies helpfully.
"Look, do you want to meet or not?" Arthur snaps.
Eames just rolls his eyes and pops his neck. "I'm heading out now to pack my things. Is there anything you want from the airport gift shop?"
"Mint candy," Arthur says, "And eyedroppers."
"What for?"
"You'll see," Arthur says and Eames doesn't like the sound of that but puts on a brave face anyway, setting his jaw.
--
It's two months later when Arthur delivers a series of ultimatums. He pulls out a list of comprehensive notes, each section highlighted in felt-tip pen, the colors varying depending on brevity and importance. He tosses it at Eames for perusal at the Shanghai airport.
"Your cholesterol levels are off the charts," Arthur tells him, "I prepared a six month meal plan that will help you get back in shape and should you get hungry, there's also a list of vegan-friendly restaurants within an hour of the capital city."
"Thank you," Eames says, "And even though I'm a carnivore, I find that very kind. God only knows where I'd be without you."
"Dead probably," Arthur says. "Or in jail."
Eames smiles tight-lipped.
--
He sees a therapist upon Cobb's recommendation.
"It's a problem," Cobb says, "And problems often have a way of growing pear-shaped when left unattended."
"Like children?" Eames supplies, but Cobb simply scowls at him in response, shoving him out the door with a slip of paper to one Dr. Monroe.
"The thing is," Eames tells her as she pushes a box of tissues his way, "I'm conflicted. On the one hand, Arthur is terrific in bed, but on the other, I'm not made for relationships and I'm slightly terrified of his ability to track me down from halfway across the world. I'm losing sleep over it, thinking I'd go to bed one night completely alone but wake up in the morning with him next to me. I'm losing hair." He touches his receding hairline and shakes his head. "Do you happen to know of hair products that increase the growth of hair follicles?"
Monroe blinks. "I don't think I can help you with that Mr. Eames."
"Bugger," Eames says. "Do you mind if I smoke?"
The therapy doesn't solve anything although it does resolve Eames' gambling problem.
--
Eames always boggles at the vast amount of junk Arthur keeps in his apartment in Boston. Arthur is a hoarder and Eames always has to wade through a series of oddly placed furniture to get from point A to point B.
He trips sometimes on footstools left in the middle of the room, piles of books, and has a ridiculous amount of bruises from banging his knees against tables that shouldn't be situated where they're situated (right when you turn the corner).
He's brought up Arthur's need of an interior decorator once or twice but Arthur just makes a noncommittal noise and waves a hand in his direction, sipping on his coffee as he finishes the morning crossword.
Eames decides not to push it.
Instead, he brings it up the next time he sees his therapist.
"He wants me to fuck him in drag."
"Some people," Monroe begins but Eames cuts her off with a laugh. "With me in drag."
"Oh," she says. She scribbles something on her notepad and prescribes him an anti-depressant.
--
Arthur throws him out of the apartment the next day. In his underwear. Eames hobbles around in the street, arms wrapped around his chest to keep himself warm. His nipples are peaking in the cold.
"What did I do this time?" Eames yells at Arthur's window. "Mm? Is this because of my refusal to wear the garters? My therapist says I shouldn't even be seeing you anymore because you're a demeaning, vicious psychopath!"
Arthur throws a lamp in Eames' direction and it only narrowly misses his head. "What the fuck, Arthur!"
"Sleep in the streets, Eames. I think it might be good for you."
"I barely have any clothes on, I'm going to get arrested!"
"Cobb can bail you out."
"I'm a wanted felon, Arthur!" Eames cries out. "Let me back inside!"
"Do you really want to get back inside?"
"Yes! It's bloody freezing out here and I can't feel my testicles!" He rubs paths of warmth up and down his arms.
Arthur takes pity on him a second later, rolling his eyes and throwing a jacket in his direction. It's their last night in Boston together so they make the most of it and even though Arthur doesn't let him wear the garters, he has Eames keep the wig.
Afterwards, Arthur curls up next to Eames, sleepy and sated, rubbing Eames on the stomach.
"Good girl," he says, nuzzling his neck, and Eames groans, flushing, flinging an arm over his eyes.
"I think my balls just shrunk back in embarrassment," he mutters.
Arthur sleeps peacefully throughout the night.
--
"Last week, I rewired your security system," Arthur says pleasantly by way of greeting. Eames sighs and kisses him cordially by the door before showing him inside.
"You called while I was in the middle of a job."
"And yet you came," Eames says dryly. "I am strangely relieved."
Arthur sets his things down on the table. "Why did you call me here, Eames?"
"My therapist says my basic fear of intimacy stems from the fact that I was never hugged as a child," Eames tells him. He comes up behind Arthur and massages his shoulders, and Arthur makes a pleased little noise and tips his head back.
"But you see," Eames steps back, dropping his hands, "that isn't completely true. We had a lot of hugs in my house, some even bordering on inappropriate, but I think the problem is that I'm slightly afraid of you so we can't keep seeing each other like this."
Arthur's head snaps up. He whips around and scoffs. "You're breaking up with me?"
Eames shrugs. "Completely reasonable-"
"Out of fear?" Arthur snorts, shaking his head in disbelief, but his voice is a little damp which makes Eames' resolve teeter.
"Really, Eames," he says, "You, of all people? I'm disappointed."
"Yes, well," Eames sniffs, "I'm only human, after all. I can hardly keep up with your postcards and excessive stalking - er, calling, and I'm afraid one day you might wake up next to me, disappointed and re-evaluating your life choices." He shrugs again.
Eames watches Arthur respond slowly, the quiver of his soft mouth and the narrow lines of his face relaxing. Arthur starts taking his clothes clothes off, pausing to balance himself against the wall as he toes off his shoes.
"What are you doing?" Eames asks, alarmed, although not entirely displeased.
"One last time," Arthur shrugs, slipping out his jacket and leaving it in a wrinkled pile on the floor, along with his tie and shoes. "You know, for good luck. What else?"
"Oh," Eames says, and then: "Oh." And he feels oddly affectionate, now of all times, but he nods his head and tightens his jaw.
"Come here," Eames says, and with that, he sticks his fingers inside Arthur's belt loops, cups his cheek, and kisses him.
--
Two days before Christmas, Cobb calls him again.
"What," Eames says on the phone. "I'm busy." This is only partially true: Eames is busy wasting away in Mombasa, narrowly avoiding malaria and pelting Yusuf with peanut shells, asking him if he'd ever play rugby while blindfolded and completely naked.
"It's Arthur," Cobb says and that's enough to get Eames rolling out of bed, splashing water on his face in the nearby bathroom.
"I am going to give you directions to his apartment," Cobb says dangerously, "and if you don't do exactly as I tell you I will gut you like a fish and use your intestines to hang on my tree."
Eames supposes this is incentive enough to take the next flight back to New York.
He thinks Cobb has given him the wrong address because his directions point to suburban New York, a neighborhood lined with trees and cheery grass lawns, populated by families who probably went to church every Sunday morning and said Grace at the table before every meal.
Eames can't picture Arthur living here, not without going crazy or buying a minivan, but when the door swings open and Arthur steps out in nothing more than puffy slippers and a bathrobe, morning paper tucked under one arm, clutching a donut in one hand, every notion Eames might have had of him is pretty much debunked.
"Good morning," Eames says cheerily, putting a hand on the railing to steady himself. The tight lines around Arthur's mouth and eyes are gone and even his posture seems different. He looks thicker than Eames last remembers him.
"Cobb told you didn't he?" Arthur says.
Eames shrugs. "I've come to save you from obesity," he says, walking up to the porch and wiping the faint remnants of white sugar from the corners of Arthur's mouth. "You look terrible. God, look at you."
"You do know how to make a person feel so attractive, don't you." Arthur smiles wryly.
Eames can't believe what it's come to: half a stone and a bathrobe of self-loathing. He snatches Arthur's donut from him, shaking his head and clicking his tongue.
"I was just eating that, you know." Arthur scowls at him and makes a halfhearted attempt to reclaim his donut. But Eames sighs and slaps him on the wrist before he can reach for it, one hand steady on Arthur's chest, pushing him back.
"No," he says firmly, "This? Is going in the bin." But instead of going in the bin, Eames stuffs it inside his mouth. Cheeks muffled, he digs his hands inside his pockets and squares his shoulders. He wishes he had a speech prepared.
"I really don't know what you're looking for," Eames says.
"Neither do I," Arthur says. "Honestly."
Eames laughs.
"Why are you here, Eames?"
"Aside from saving you from obesity? I was hoping you'd take me back."
"You broke up with me."
"Cobb also threatened to gut me like a fish if I didn't pay you a visit," Eames says. This makes Arthur break into a tiny smile. He rolls his eyes.
Eames decides to chance it and seize him in a hug. "You feel good in my arms," he whispers into Arthur's neck, shutting his eyes, "Even though I can hardly close my arms around your waist anymore."
"Fuck you."
"I should hope so."
Arthur sighs. "I didn't kill my ex, Eames."
"I know you didn't."
"It was an accident."
"Arthur," Eames says, grabbing him by the shoulders. "I don't care. Well I do, I honestly fear for my life here, but I like you enough even with the sexual whimsies and your penchant for following me around the world. While other people might think it's a bit obsessive, I think it's cute. Somewhat. Maybe. I dunno."
Arthur punches him lightly in the arm. "I have hot chocolate inside," he says, "And coffee."
"Is that an invitation?" Eames asks, rubbing the aching spot Arthur had punched. He has a mean left hook.
"It's Christmas," Arthur says, shrugging, "So yes."
Eames smiles and pats Arthur on the stomach. "Happy Christmas then," he says, kissing him, slipping his hands inside Arthur's robe, into his back pockets. Arthur snorts but kisses back, open-mouthed and surprisingly gentle.
"You should exercise," Eames tells him later when they're lying together on the rug in front of the fire. "I think I nearly broke my back trying to fuck you against the wall."
Arthur knees him in the crotch.
Tough love, Eames thinks, howling in pain.