Inception - Hotter Than Tales of Crack Peddlin' (Eames/Arthur, NC-17)
Dear Inception-
I had forgotten what it was like to always want to talk about something you liked. To yearn to write it. To want your characters to calm down because you only have two hands and can we please not be planning other stories when we're still working on the one in the open document. Thank you for that.
Inception
Eames/Arthur, Yusuf, Ariadne
NC-17
Hotter Than Tales of Crack Peddlin'
They have hot dogs for starters.
It's not the fancy dinner over which Eames had planned to seduce Arthur. Not that Arthur knew Eames was planning to seduce him, but facts are so unimportant in the long run. Or the short run.
The line at the Pink's on La Brea is prohibitively long, but this is where Arthur wants to go, so this is where they are.
Actually, this is where Eames followed Arthur to.
Arthur left his hotel on the strip (Sunset Towers) and walked the three miles here. On foot. In the middle of the afternoon. In December.
This is rather shocking to Eames' sensibilities since no one walks in Los Angeles. Plus, it regularly hits 30 degrees Celsius in Los Angeles in the winter and Arthur is walking in black pinstriped trousers, a white checked shirt and black jumper. He must be sweltering. Eames is wearing considerably less and he can still feel the sweat adhering his clothes to every inch of his skin.
Eames doesn't bother to hide the fact that he's following Arthur, but Arthur never looks behind him. Not once. Not even in the reflections of the store windows. The cigar bar. The CB2 furniture store. The Purple Panther tattoo parlor.
When Arthur stops at the end of the line for Pink's, Eames stops right behind him. "What are we having?" he breathes into Arthur's left ear.
Arthur doesn't twitch. "Hot dogs," a pause. "It's the only thing they serve here."
"Hot dogs," Eames repeats.
It's clearly the dawning of a new day. First Cobb gets his life back, and then Arthur starts acting like a boorish American who eats appalling food. Surely a plague of locusts will be next.
"Hot dogs," Arthur confirms.
"The phallic approach," Eames says after a moment of consideration. "That's very blatant. Especially for you."
Arthur turns to face him. His cheeks are pink with the exertion of their walk and his hairline is damp. "Not everything is about sex."
He looks delicious. Eames curls his fingernails into his palms and they bite sharply into his skin. He wants to touch, but he suspects that Arthur would not appreciate a classic Eames moment at this time and Eames wants to do this right.
After all these years, he wants them to do this right.
"Sadly enough, you're not wrong," Eames says, exercising excellent restraint. "Not everything is about sex -- but it should be."
When Arthur chuckles, his eyes crinkle at the corners.
Eames is besotted.
Arthur takes his hot dog fairly plain, just ketchup and mustard. Eames gets everything humanly possible: bacon, chili, tomatoes, sauerkraut, relish. He likes experimenting with his food, mixing up the various flavors and then extracting them with his taste buds one by one.
Forgery isn't just about a face. It's about tastes and textures and extrapolation. It's about sliding into someone else's slippers and making the jumps from A to B to F to Z without thinking.
He stands under the awning with Arthur, the shade temporarily offering Eames relief from the sun. He's an Englishman, all this sunshine is appalling.
Arthur gets mustard on his tie. Eames swipes it off with his index finger and sucks it clean.
Arthur's mouth twitches, his dimple temporarily on display.
Eames stuffs the rest of his hot dog in his mouth and wipes his hands off on his trousers. "Now that we've had starters, let's talk about dinner."
Arthur's still eating. "I'm still eating."
Eames waves dismissively. "Details."
Arthur shakes his head. He's got ketchup in the corner of his mouth. "Where's this hypothetical dinner taking place?"
"The Mondrian. Asia de Cuba. Remarkable view. Excellent drinks."
Arthur chews the last of his hot dog thoughtfully. He speaks once he's done; his mother would be proud, no doubt. "You're paying?"
"That is the idea."
"I know all about your ideas."
Eames reaches out and swipes at the corner of Arthur's mouth with his thumb. "Not all of my ideas," he says licking his thumb. "At least I hope not."
Arthur shakes his head and pulls out his phone.
"Are you ringing your mum to tell her you're in love?" Eames asks brightly.
"I'm calling for a taxi. It's fucking hot out here," Arthur says.
Arthur's being reasonable. Finally.
While Arthur's on the phone, Eames slides his hand into his left pocket; his fingers brush against a faded poker chip and a silver antique pocket watch. The watch is attached by a reinforced chain. All of Eames' clothes have tiny hooks in their pockets that fit this chain perfectly.
He pulls out the watch and studies it for a moment. The second hand is going clockwise, as it should be.
Only Arthur could make him so suspicious.
Yusuf has a job for them.
Actually it's not really a job inasmuch as he's looking for guinea pigs for a compound he's working on. It's very hard to say "no" to people you've nearly died with. This is why Eames tries to limit the people he works with to a small group.
So when Yusuf rings, Eames tells him point blank, "You are taking terrible advantage of me. I'm not willing to die for just anybody."
Yusuf laughs. "You're not going to die, my friend."
"Because I've never heard that one before." Eames makes dubious face #3, which is sadly wasted on his mobile phone.
"You will not come to any harm; I guarantee it personally."
"Oh, well, if you're guaranteeing it personally," Eames mocks.
Still, on the afternoon in question it's nice to see Yusuf again. And the same for Ariadne. She's not part of the experiment apparently, but she's perfectly happy to watch the results from behind a protective barrier Yusuf's constructed out of plexiglass and steel reinforcements.
A more controlling man, a man like Arthur, might voice concern about such a barrier, but Eames isn't that sort of man. He takes it as it comes and Arthur's not here.
In fact, Eames hasn't seen Arthur since the night they had dinner together at Asia de Cuba.
He'd called around at Arthur's hotel the next day for breakfast and found the housekeeper changing the bedding.
Apparently Arthur had checked out.
Eames is not taking Arthur's lack of participation in the experiment personally.
At least not too much.
This is work and that is "other."
And as this is work, Eames sprawls out on a hideous white wicker chaise lounge and waits for whatever is coming. "What exactly is this supposed to do?" he asks, idly fingering the hem of his latest purchase, a black leather jacket.
Yusuf sprays him with a violently red-colored mixture in a glass bottle. "You will see."
Eames inhales, sneezes and his vision instantly mists over. He can hear Arthur's voice scolding him. "Don't you think you should've asked that before you--"
Eames misses the rest of the lecture.
It's hot.
That's his first thought.
It's sunny; there are no clouds in the sky.
Second thought.
Eames is on his back. He pushes himself to his elbows and feels a bead of sweat snake down the center of his chest. It pools in his navel. He's shirtless. And trouserless. He's not wearing anything much. Well, anything much besides a wrinkled, white swimming costume.
It makes sense since he's at the beach. Not any beach he's ever seen. It's not Dover or Brighton or Elafoinissos or Miami. It vaguely reminds him on what he thinks the private beaches of Martha's Vineyard are like, but he's not sure.
There's sand on his left thigh. He's lying on a red and blue towel. And he's covered in tattoos.
The tattoo across his stomach he doesn't recall getting. It's in Latin. The rest of his ink is cut off in strange ways as though someone's pieced them together from various snippets and can't quite figure out what they look like as a whole.
Eames rubs a hand over his head. His hair is short. Shorter than he's had it for a long time.
Not since that one time in Uzbekistan with Nash, Cobb and Arthur.
There are strands of The Pixies coming from a radio near his right ankle. The radio looks like something his nan had in her flat when he was in primary school. Eames was never into The Pixies. He gets to his feet and brushes sand from his hands.
He doesn't remember touching the sand.
He looks around him. The water is clear, pristine.
It should be blue. Blue water reflects the sky; it's all a trick of the light.
But this water is literally clear. Eames can see the bottom. There are no rocks, no shells, no seaweed, no fish.
It's like a pool. A pool that goes on forever into the horizon.
The sand is soft under Eames' feet. It shouldn't be. There are rocks in the sand. Shells. He pauses at the edge of the water and lets it lap at his toes. His skin is heated; the coolness of the water feels good. Perfect. It's the temperature he always hopes for at the beach where the water is always too cold. Even in Oahu.
There's sweat running down his spine, and his skin ripples when something firm and soft follows a particularly tenacious bead of sweat down the small of his back.
Long, slim fingers curl around Eames' left hip and he automatically looks towards the body pressing against his right side.
Arthur's nose is pink. So are his shoulders. He's wearing a gorgeous black fedora and a swimming costume with red fish on them. The pattern looks Aztec.
He offers Eames a green drink. The green is so bright it's verging on radioactive.
Eames looks down at the thumb rubbing circles along the tattoo on his hipbone and then he looks back at Arthur. "What day is it?"
Arthur's mouth quirks. "Monday."
"What did I have to eat for breakfast?"
"Same thing you always have: tea, toast and those nasty beans that make you pass gas."
"Pass gas. Such an elegant turn of phrase. The entire English Empire eats those 'nasty beans' as you call them."
"Oh, is that what happened to your empire?"
Eames snorts and studies Arthur's profile. "Touché."
Arthur's lips are pink, chapped. They're begging for Eames' attention, and who is he to turn down such a tempting proposal? He leans in and kisses the corner of Arthur's mouth and Arthur lets him. He doesn't move in, but he doesn't move away. It's really just a dry press of lips. Almost chaste.
Except for the way Arthur licks his lips after Eames pulls away.
Eames swallows. He can feel the sweat bonding them together.
His watch is ticking away against his left thigh. He didn't notice that before. He extracts it from pockets he didn't know existed and opens the face. It's rotating anticlockwise. Of course it is.
"Is this your dream or mine?" Arthur asks after Eames puts the watch away.
"You'd be wearing less if it were mine," Eames replies.
"Hmm." Arthur presses the sweaty, green cocktail against Eames' bare abdomen. It's cold. Shockingly so. "Do you want this or not?"
"Not," Eames says. He's not expecting it when the hand at his waist slides around to his spine and shoves him forward into the water.
He's falling.
Falling.
That's quite the kick.
He wakes up on the floor beside the hideous wicker lounger. The toes of a pair of brown Puma trainers are right by his nose. He cranes his head to the side, expecting Ariadne. Instead he's faced with Arthur in a t-shirt and jeans and holding a garment bag.
Eames frowns. "When did you put on clothing?"
Arthur blinks. "I don't even want to know."
Eames pushes himself to his feet, wipes the drool from his jaw. "That's not what you said five minutes ago."
Arthur turns away. "That was five minutes ago," he says, walking away with his garment bag slung over his shoulder.
Eames needs a drink.
He stands up, glances at Ariadne and Yusuf talking animatedly behind the barrier and heads for the mini-fridge in Cobb's office. Considering the warehouse has no walls and they're using filing cabinets and chalkboards as partitions, "office" is a very loosely defined term.
When Eames comes back with two mini bottles of the Skyy Vodka that they keep in the mini-fridge's freezer, Yusuf is sitting on a plastic lawn chair next to the wicker lounger.
He's making notes on a yellow pad of paper with great flourish. He looks up when Eames plonks down beside him.
"So, my friend," he says, "how do you feel?"
Eames rubs the back of his head. "How am I supposed to feel?"
"You did not achieve nirvana with this I take it?"
Eames smirks after he downs one tiny bottle of vodka. "Is that what was supposed to happen?"
Yusuf smiles ruefully. "No, but I thought I should check anyway."
Eames pats at the pockets of the leather motorcycle jacket he bought today on a whim. He reckoned it looked like something Arthur might like. The right hand pocket jangles busily. It's holding his watch, poker chip and the very first historical artifact he ever "liberated": a Spanish doubloon.
He takes the doubloon out and flips it between his fingers over and over again.
He can feel Yusuf watching him. "Are you experiencing any negative side effects?" Yusuf probes.
Eames' smile has too many teeth. "That depends: would you reckon Arthur is a side effect?"
"Ah," Yusuf says. "So the proximity compound does stimulate the dream center."
Eames stills the doubloon between his thumb and forefinger. "That was a proximity compound?"
Yusuf grins beatifically. "Surprise."
Eames shakes his head. "Does Arthur know about this?"
"Arthur is not you. Of course he knows, you can ask him yourself."
Eames finishes the other mini-vodka before he stands up. "That's not a bad idea."
Arthur is naked.
Well, not naked, but shirtless.
At least his back is exposed to Eames, which is what happens when you work in a warehouse with zero privacy
When Eames went in search of Arthur he had no idea he would find this. He would've looked much sooner.
Arthur is all lean, taut muscles and smooth skin. There is a scar though; it runs parallel to his spine. It's faded, old. Long. And then it's covered up by the shirt Arthur's pulling on.
Eames can't remember the last time he was so disappointed.
"Don't get dressed on my account," he says.
Arthur's head bows; his hands begin buttoning his shirt. "It's not on your account," he says. "I have a meeting after I'm done here."
"So you're not taking me home and ravishing me? I feel cheated."
By the time Arthur turns around all Eames can see is a tiny sliver of his navel.
And then that's gone too.
Arthur stares at him for several seconds, tucking in his shirt, straightening his collar, and then he releases the most enormous sigh. "Look," he begins.
Eames' right eye twitches. "I already have done," he says delightedly. "And I approve. I'd approve more if you were wearing less, I have to say."
"Eames, be serious."
"Oh, I don't think you want me to be serious."
"Maybe I do."
Eames raises an eyebrow. "Maybe you do," a beat. "Maybe you don't."
"Do you even know how to be serious?"
"You'd be surprised at what I know."
Arthur's mouth thins into a line as he fastens the cufflinks. "I don't doubt that."
"You should give me more credit." There's a sharp note at the end of that sentence that Eames wasn't expecting from himself. Sometimes, though, Arthur makes him dreadfully tired.
Eames studies Arthur intently. The flushed cheeks, the perfectly coiffed hair. There is nothing out of place about him. "Or maybe you don't want to give me credit," he decides. "Clearly it's easier for you to write me off. You certainly don't want to meet me halfway."
Arthur opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
Eames shakes his head. "All this because I don't fit your mould. Are you really so scared to try something new?"
"Why should I?" Arthur snaps. "Do you know what you want? Because I don't." Arthur yanks on his suit jacket angrily. "I don't fucking know what you want from me."
This time it's Eames who lets loose an enormous sigh.
"For someone so brilliant, you're terribly dense," he says with resignation.
"I am not!" Arthur retorts.
"Yes, you are."
They stand in the warehouse, staring at each other for several seconds, Arthur glowering and Eames utterly knackered from all of this. He slips his hand into his pocket and rubs the burnished metal of his totem.
"I was wrong," he says after some time. "You don't lack imagination: you lack faith."
He turns and walks out, deliberately not listening to Arthur's response.
Eames is sitting outside his flat in Brixton smoking a Marlboro Light and drinking a cup of peppermint tea. It's cold out. At least according to the numb feeling in his arse and his nose it's cold out. The sky is grey. It could be November or February. Or March or June.
He's never lived in Brixton.
He gave up smoking when he started running for a living.
He hates peppermint tea.
He's wearing a red-and-white plaid flannel shirt. He's never even owned a plaid flannel shirt. He wore one once, when he went fox hunting in the Lake District. Blencathra. Lovely place. Terrible activity. Eames prefers to hunt animals his own size; it's much more sporting.
"I'm off to the shops now, Jamie," his nan says, whacking him in the head with her enormous red patent-leather bag as she brushes by him on the steps. "Going to get some of that nice liver and onions you like for tea."
"Okay, Nan," he says automatically.
His nan's hair is platinum blonde and she's dressed like Lily Allen. Bless.
His nan's been dead six years and his first name's not Jamie.
He hasn't had an unaided dream in ages.
He watches his nan bundle herself into a neon green Daewoo and drive off down the street in reverse. She dings three cars. He just shakes his head and smiles. He stops smiling at least three seconds before he sees Arthur standing in the parking spot his nan just vacated.
Eames flicks away his cigarette.
And then gravity disappears and Eames is flying through the air. The blow he delivers to Arthur's jaw sends Arthur staggering back until he's supine in the middle of the street.
Eames advances again. He aims his foot for Arthur's ribs. Tries to stomp on his hand. But then his ankle is being grabbed and he's being spun and slammed against a very inconvenient silver Volvo.
All the breath is crushed out of his lungs, but you don't have to breathe in a dream.
In a dream the old rules don't apply.
Eames rolls away just as Arthur's fist hits the passenger window Eames is sprawled on.
The glass spiders, cracks; Eames elbows Arthur and hears something break. He turns around. There's blood on Arthur's face. Blood on his hands.
Arthur wipes his face and smiles.
Eames shakes his head. "We don't have to do this," he says, holding his hands out as they circle each other. Looking for holes. For gaps in their respective armour.
Looking for a way in.
Eames' hands are smeared red, too.
His nose feels disconnected from the rest of his face.
"Well, we have to do something." Arthur laughs. The laugh is wrong, twisted.
Wrung out and despairing.
Eames is not prepared for the roundhouse kick to the side of his head.
His ears are ringing, and he's lying on the ground on his side but he thinks Arthur says, "We can't go on like this."
He rolls away just as Arthur stomps the ground where his head was.
Eames vaults to his feet. He can never do that properly in reality. Of course in reality he doesn't run up the side of a car and kick Arthur's chest hard enough to hear the ribs crack.
Arthur flies back through the air and smacks into a lamppost.
He lands with a sickening thud on the kerb and his head lolls to the side precariously.
Eames takes a wary step towards him. "I don't want to hurt you," he says cautiously.
"I think it's too late for that," Arthur coughs. Blood's coming from his mouth. It makes Eames think of Saito -- but this is much worse.
Eames feels dizzy. He collapses a few feet from Arthur; his vision is incredibly blurry. "I want--" he begins and stops.
Arthur coughs again. "I know."
And then there's nothing.
He's awake.
He left his bedside lamp on. It's 11:14 in the morning.
Someone is knocking on the door.
Eames answers his door holding his watch.
Ariadne shields her eyes. "C'mon, Eames, have some modesty."
Eames smiles at her. "Modesty is overrated, darling."
"Well then, think of all the men who are going to compare unfavorably now that you've burned your naked image on my retinas."
He laughs and turns away to go put on something more accommodating.
He returns in a vest and jeans.
She's in his kitchen poking at his kettle and eating his McVities.
"A bit early for biscuits, isn't it?" he says.
She's turned on the kettle; very thoughtful.
When Ariadne smiles there's chocolate on her teeth. "It's always time for cookies."
"I could make you breakfast," he offers, opening his refrigerator. Instead of the normal toast and beans he pulls out bacon, eggs and milk.
"I already ate," she says dismissively.
"Already ate? It's barely morning."
Ariadne polishes off one digestive and grabs another. "It's almost noon, Eames."
"My point precisely," he says, putting a Tetley's bag in a chipped Arsenal mug. "Barely morning."
"I can't stay," she insists. "I just came by--"
"To eat all my biscuits."
Ariadne gives him an exasperated smile. "I just came by to tell you that you have to help him out."
Eames pauses in reaching for the sugar. "Help who out?"
She rolls her eyes. "Don't you play stupid, too."
"I'm not playing at anything."
Ariadne purses her lips.
Eames gazes back at her patiently and her face softens. "Okay," she concedes. "You're not playing, but he doesn't know that. He's repressed."
Eames makes a derisory noise. "Arthur is not repressed. A controlling, anal-retentive, deeply suspicious charming man who dresses exquisitely, yes. Repressed? No."
"Okay, so he's not repressed," a pause. "But he is cautious. Very cautious."
"Too cautious," Eames corrects as the kettle goes off.
"Not everybody can be like you."
"More unfortunate for them," he says, finally getting the sugar and making his tea.
"Eames." Ariadne's hand is light on his shoulder.
Eames frowns. "He's very high-maintenance, my Arthur," he complains.
Ariadne's smile is brilliant. "Yes, but he's still your Arthur."
It's raining in San Francisco. Eames should not be surprised.
Every time he visits the Bay Area it's either cold or raining or cold and raining; it like he's visiting a little part of England in the colonies.
The taxi from Oakland Airport drops him off on the corner of Broadway and Taylor in Russian Hill, and he stands on the kerb for quite some time, watching the windows of a corner third floor apartment.
There's movement. He can make out a blur bustling past curtains pulled to let in the grey morning.
A figure moving back and forth with purpose.
Always with purpose.
Eames is getting drenched.
He dashes across the road when the front door to 999 Broadway is opened by a lanky black girl pushing a bicycle.
"Thanks," he says, holding the door open to let her extract her bike before he dashes up three floors to Apartment Nine.
There's muffled music coming from the other side of the apartment's front door, and Eames knocks sharply. With resolve. With purpose.
He doesn't hear approaching footsteps, but he can see shadows playing underneath the crack of the front door and behind the peephole. He can just imagine Arthur's sigh, the debate about pretending not to be home.
"I know you're home," Eames informs the peeling paint on Arthur's front door. "Don't play silly buggers."
And then the door swings open. Arthur's wearing grey trousers and a white shirt with rolled up sleeves. There's a smudge of dirt on his cheek and he's holding a bottle of cleaning fluid. "Eames," he says dryly.
"Oh, darling, you cleaned," Eames mocks, deliberately brushing against Arthur as he steps inside a flat he's dreamed about countless times. The flat is just as orderly as Eames expected, just as ascetic. Everything has its right place. The red vase on the end table. The art books closed away under a glass-top coffee table. The walls are a bright white, the furniture chocolate-coloured leather and antique walnut.
There's an exquisite table in the dining room covered with books, magnifying glasses and blueprints.
The color in the rooms comes from the art on the walls. Sharp Japanese prints; Kandinsky next to Picasso. Basquiat. Kahlo. Banksy.
What really sets Arthur's flat apart is the bay widows. They're vast, all-encompassing. The view is amazing. It's like floating in the ether.
The Pixies' "Here Comes Your Man" blares from another room.
Eames soaks it all in.
This is Arthur.
"You're dripping all over my floor," Arthur says by way of greeting before setting the cleaning fluid on the sofa's end table.
Eames looks down at the puddle his clothes are leaving on Arthur's spotless wood floors. "I'm sorry, I'll try to do better in the future," he promises, and then he begins to strip.
The green tweed blazer lands with a "plop"; his favorite pink silk shirt a "plip"; his loafers thud when he kicks them off. He unfastens his belt, unbuttons his trousers and pushes them down to his ankles before stepping out of them altogether. His socks are last.
When he's done he's standing before Arthur in damp white briefs and not much else.
There's a draft coming from somewhere that makes his nipples stand at attention. Or it could just be the way Arthur's staring at him as though he just pulled a Tommy Gun out of thin air. "Better now?"
Arthur rubs his mouth. "Eames."
Eames cocks his head to the side. "Yes, Arthur?"
In three long strides Arthur's across the room and crowding Eames until he's forced to take one step back, and then another and then another. He hits something hard and unyielding. And dreadfully cold against his back.
They've finally hit the wall. It took fucking long enough.
"Why are you here?" Arthur's tone is quiet, but the set of his jaw is hard.
"To see you," Eames says without preamble.
Arthur shakes his head. "Why are you here?" he repeats.
"Because you promised me the world, used me up callously and never even left a tip. I hate it when that happens."
Arthur's hands bracket Eames shoulders. He glances down at the floor before looking back at Eames. "Why are you here?" he says again.
Arthur's tone is almost despairing. His voice cracks and Eames leans forward and presses his forehead against Arthur's. "Because if I left it up to you this would never happen," Eames says quietly. "Because the most fearless person I know shouldn't be afraid of me."
Arthur exhales softly, his eyes fluttering closed, and Eames closes the gap and kisses him.
In reality Arthur's lips are dry and smooth. In reality is mouth his thin, his tongue is wet and he's a terribly selfish kisser. He cups Eames' face and shoves him back against the wall and tries to devour Eames whole.
His tongue laps up every inch of Eames' control and obliterates it. Arthur licks and sucks. He wedges his leg between Eames' thighs and ruts against him until Eames is whimpering into Arthur's mouth and clawing at his clothes. Buttons clatter to the floor. Eames yanks at Arthur's belt in irritation. It's being obstreperous.
And instead of offering Eames the slightest hint of relief, Arthur's hands slide over Eames' exposed skin setting every inch on fire before he grabs two handfuls of Eames' arse and man-handles him, rutting him against Arthur's thigh even harder.
The wall is relentless against Eames' back. He can feel his skin being rubbed raw; he can only imagine what's happening to Arthur's knuckles, but it doesn't matter, because Arthur is mouthing at Eames' neck, biting him sharply and babbling the sort of filth that makes Eames writhe in his arms like he's been taking lessons from the ladies at Spearmint Rhino.
"Your mouth," Arthur murmurs. "Want to fuck your perfect mouth. God your mouth is obscene. Watching you lick your lips, watching you eat that stupid fucking hot dog."
Eames makes a strangled noise. Arthur carries on with his litany. "I want you to suck my cock, so I can come on your face. On that hideous tweed jacket. I want you in my bed, want to spread you wide and lick you open. Listen to you scream when I slide three -"
"Enough!" Eames says, shoving Arthur back. He's about two-fifths of a second from coming. Although, judging by the way he just came in his briefs, perhaps his estimate might've been off.
Arthur's eyes are huge, his mouth slick and swollen. Eames has ruined his shirt and Arthur's panting, color high in his cheeks.
Eames would happily be defiled now, and yet...
He takes a deep breath. "I shall forgive your slur against my favourite jacket, because I am expecting you to fuck my brains out rather spectacularly. So I think less clothing and more shagging is called for, don't you?"
This is probably why five minutes later Eames is on his hands and knees in Arthur's bed, the cheeks of his arse spread wide and Arthur licking him open like he would be happy to do it all day.
Eames would be happy to stay this way all day, as well.
His fingers are cramping as he yanks at the ridiculously expensive duvet cover - he would know Pratesi anywhere -- and he keeps yelling into his bicep. Twenty minutes ago he was freezing and wet, now, he's in danger of spontaneous combustion.
Arthur's bedroom also has enormous bay windows. The curtains are pulled all the way back and anybody with a view could be watching as Eames collapses down on one hand so he can fist his cock and try and fuck himself on Arthur's tongue.
"Fuck fuck fuck," he pants as Arthur spreads him wider -- too wide, too much -- spits and then licks more.
"Just like that," Arthur orders, and then there are two slick, cool - cold - fingers sliding inside Eames where before there was just wet heat.
Arthur's vicious; he opens Eames fast and hard and then slows down, scissoring his fingers until Eames is aching with the stretch. He whines pitifully. He's never really thought of himself as a greedy slut, but life is about evolution.
And the way Arthur's fucking Eames open and the way he's jerking his cock and begging for more, well, that's evolution. "Oh fucking hell," he groans, shuddering as he comes all over his hand and the duvet.
It's messy and soul-wrenching and Arthur curls over his back and kisses his shoulder. "Better now?" he mocks softly.
Eames hasn't believed in a higher being since he was eleven.
That orgasm, however, was definitely a spiritual experience.
"Shut up and fuck me," Eames mumbles blearily, post-orgasmic lassitude making it easy for Arthur to roll him onto his back.
It's red behind Eames' eyelids. Everything in his head is quiet. There's ringing in his ears, but he'd know the sound of a foil condom packet being opened anywhere. He can feel Arthur lifting his legs, stroking the inside of his right knee.
"Look at me."
Arthur's voice requires him to obey, and Eames opens his eyes. Arthur's kneeling over him, Eames' ankles on his shoulders, the head of his cock pressing against Eames' opening. Arthur thrusts in, fast and intractable, and Eames arches off the bed so hard he thinks his spine might snap.
"Jesus fucking Christ," he curses as Arthur grips his thighs and fucks him deep.
There's no slow acclimation, there's just this ruthless invasion of Arthur taking him over.
The slap of skin on skin, the way Arthur's nails are digging into the muscle of his legs, the relentlessness of his stare. This is what Eames came for. This and so much more.
Eames scratches at the duvet cover, at Arthur's forearms. More. Deeper. Harder.
Please.
Fucking god, Arthur, please.
Eames' cock is twitching against his stomach as though it hasn't just performed twice in under thirty minutes.
There's sweat beading on Arthur's face; it drips on Eames' chest, and then Arthur's shifting, moving. Eames wraps his legs around Arthur's waist to keep him close.
Arthur's mouth quirks slightly at this act of possessiveness, and when he shifts again his cock brushes against Eames' prostate. Eames moans low. "Like that?" Arthur asks.
Eames' laugh is more like a wheeze. "I have no complaints for the management at this time."
"Good to know." Arthur says. His eyes are wide, glassy. He rubs Eames' mouth with the tips of his fingers and Eames nips at his index finger.
Arthur shakes his head and smiles. It's gorgeous and open and free.
And then he pulls away and slams back into Eames hard enough that Eames' vision goes blurry. There's one thrust and then another, persistent, insistent. Arthur's cock hits Eames' prostate enough that Eames is in grave danger of screaming like a girl. Arthur's merciless. Harder, sharper, faster.
This is everything.
Arthur's presses his forehead to Eames' and breathes over him. There's not enough air for kissing, it's just panting against each other's mouths, Eames clawing at Arthur's back.
And then Arthur shouts and goes still for a moment before collapsing onto Eames. He's all sharp angles and long limbs. He shudders his way through aftershocks as Eames pets him.
After ward, Eames wanders around Arthur's flat, finding a towel to clean them up with, getting water from the refrigerator. Pausing to play with Arthur's iPod, which has moved on to Gnarls Barkley.
Maybe they are crazy. Probably.
When Eames comes back, Arthur's sprawled out on his stomach, his head pillowed on his forearm and the bed clothes pooled down by his feet. He looks utterly fucked out. "Someplace you need to be?"
Eames tosses the towel on the nightstand and sets the water next to it. "Yeah," he says, climbing directly into Arthur's space and forcing him to budge over. "I need to be here."
Arthur's mouth curls at the corners. "Okay."
Eames closes his eyes when an arm is slung across his waist. "Okay," he agrees.
-end-
Title taken from the combined brilliance of Mos Def and Talib Kweli, known once upon a time as Black Star, because it describes perfectly my feelings about this pairing. 'Definition' and Re: Definition look'em up. Embrace the awesome
Thanks to lazlet for Tom Hardy appreciation and shirt picking :)
The beach section was gifted unto me by this photo. Thank maurheti for sharing it. Also, thank her for her awesome beta duty and for the fact that when I run to her babbling about naked Eames, her only response is, "get to work!"
The Pixies shout out is for all my (500) Days of Summer people.
I had forgotten what it was like to always want to talk about something you liked. To yearn to write it. To want your characters to calm down because you only have two hands and can we please not be planning other stories when we're still working on the one in the open document. Thank you for that.
Inception
Eames/Arthur, Yusuf, Ariadne
NC-17
Hotter Than Tales of Crack Peddlin'
They have hot dogs for starters.
It's not the fancy dinner over which Eames had planned to seduce Arthur. Not that Arthur knew Eames was planning to seduce him, but facts are so unimportant in the long run. Or the short run.
The line at the Pink's on La Brea is prohibitively long, but this is where Arthur wants to go, so this is where they are.
Actually, this is where Eames followed Arthur to.
Arthur left his hotel on the strip (Sunset Towers) and walked the three miles here. On foot. In the middle of the afternoon. In December.
This is rather shocking to Eames' sensibilities since no one walks in Los Angeles. Plus, it regularly hits 30 degrees Celsius in Los Angeles in the winter and Arthur is walking in black pinstriped trousers, a white checked shirt and black jumper. He must be sweltering. Eames is wearing considerably less and he can still feel the sweat adhering his clothes to every inch of his skin.
Eames doesn't bother to hide the fact that he's following Arthur, but Arthur never looks behind him. Not once. Not even in the reflections of the store windows. The cigar bar. The CB2 furniture store. The Purple Panther tattoo parlor.
When Arthur stops at the end of the line for Pink's, Eames stops right behind him. "What are we having?" he breathes into Arthur's left ear.
Arthur doesn't twitch. "Hot dogs," a pause. "It's the only thing they serve here."
"Hot dogs," Eames repeats.
It's clearly the dawning of a new day. First Cobb gets his life back, and then Arthur starts acting like a boorish American who eats appalling food. Surely a plague of locusts will be next.
"Hot dogs," Arthur confirms.
"The phallic approach," Eames says after a moment of consideration. "That's very blatant. Especially for you."
Arthur turns to face him. His cheeks are pink with the exertion of their walk and his hairline is damp. "Not everything is about sex."
He looks delicious. Eames curls his fingernails into his palms and they bite sharply into his skin. He wants to touch, but he suspects that Arthur would not appreciate a classic Eames moment at this time and Eames wants to do this right.
After all these years, he wants them to do this right.
"Sadly enough, you're not wrong," Eames says, exercising excellent restraint. "Not everything is about sex -- but it should be."
When Arthur chuckles, his eyes crinkle at the corners.
Eames is besotted.
Arthur takes his hot dog fairly plain, just ketchup and mustard. Eames gets everything humanly possible: bacon, chili, tomatoes, sauerkraut, relish. He likes experimenting with his food, mixing up the various flavors and then extracting them with his taste buds one by one.
Forgery isn't just about a face. It's about tastes and textures and extrapolation. It's about sliding into someone else's slippers and making the jumps from A to B to F to Z without thinking.
He stands under the awning with Arthur, the shade temporarily offering Eames relief from the sun. He's an Englishman, all this sunshine is appalling.
Arthur gets mustard on his tie. Eames swipes it off with his index finger and sucks it clean.
Arthur's mouth twitches, his dimple temporarily on display.
Eames stuffs the rest of his hot dog in his mouth and wipes his hands off on his trousers. "Now that we've had starters, let's talk about dinner."
Arthur's still eating. "I'm still eating."
Eames waves dismissively. "Details."
Arthur shakes his head. He's got ketchup in the corner of his mouth. "Where's this hypothetical dinner taking place?"
"The Mondrian. Asia de Cuba. Remarkable view. Excellent drinks."
Arthur chews the last of his hot dog thoughtfully. He speaks once he's done; his mother would be proud, no doubt. "You're paying?"
"That is the idea."
"I know all about your ideas."
Eames reaches out and swipes at the corner of Arthur's mouth with his thumb. "Not all of my ideas," he says licking his thumb. "At least I hope not."
Arthur shakes his head and pulls out his phone.
"Are you ringing your mum to tell her you're in love?" Eames asks brightly.
"I'm calling for a taxi. It's fucking hot out here," Arthur says.
Arthur's being reasonable. Finally.
While Arthur's on the phone, Eames slides his hand into his left pocket; his fingers brush against a faded poker chip and a silver antique pocket watch. The watch is attached by a reinforced chain. All of Eames' clothes have tiny hooks in their pockets that fit this chain perfectly.
He pulls out the watch and studies it for a moment. The second hand is going clockwise, as it should be.
Only Arthur could make him so suspicious.
Yusuf has a job for them.
Actually it's not really a job inasmuch as he's looking for guinea pigs for a compound he's working on. It's very hard to say "no" to people you've nearly died with. This is why Eames tries to limit the people he works with to a small group.
So when Yusuf rings, Eames tells him point blank, "You are taking terrible advantage of me. I'm not willing to die for just anybody."
Yusuf laughs. "You're not going to die, my friend."
"Because I've never heard that one before." Eames makes dubious face #3, which is sadly wasted on his mobile phone.
"You will not come to any harm; I guarantee it personally."
"Oh, well, if you're guaranteeing it personally," Eames mocks.
Still, on the afternoon in question it's nice to see Yusuf again. And the same for Ariadne. She's not part of the experiment apparently, but she's perfectly happy to watch the results from behind a protective barrier Yusuf's constructed out of plexiglass and steel reinforcements.
A more controlling man, a man like Arthur, might voice concern about such a barrier, but Eames isn't that sort of man. He takes it as it comes and Arthur's not here.
In fact, Eames hasn't seen Arthur since the night they had dinner together at Asia de Cuba.
He'd called around at Arthur's hotel the next day for breakfast and found the housekeeper changing the bedding.
Apparently Arthur had checked out.
Eames is not taking Arthur's lack of participation in the experiment personally.
At least not too much.
This is work and that is "other."
And as this is work, Eames sprawls out on a hideous white wicker chaise lounge and waits for whatever is coming. "What exactly is this supposed to do?" he asks, idly fingering the hem of his latest purchase, a black leather jacket.
Yusuf sprays him with a violently red-colored mixture in a glass bottle. "You will see."
Eames inhales, sneezes and his vision instantly mists over. He can hear Arthur's voice scolding him. "Don't you think you should've asked that before you--"
Eames misses the rest of the lecture.
It's hot.
That's his first thought.
It's sunny; there are no clouds in the sky.
Second thought.
Eames is on his back. He pushes himself to his elbows and feels a bead of sweat snake down the center of his chest. It pools in his navel. He's shirtless. And trouserless. He's not wearing anything much. Well, anything much besides a wrinkled, white swimming costume.
It makes sense since he's at the beach. Not any beach he's ever seen. It's not Dover or Brighton or Elafoinissos or Miami. It vaguely reminds him on what he thinks the private beaches of Martha's Vineyard are like, but he's not sure.
There's sand on his left thigh. He's lying on a red and blue towel. And he's covered in tattoos.
The tattoo across his stomach he doesn't recall getting. It's in Latin. The rest of his ink is cut off in strange ways as though someone's pieced them together from various snippets and can't quite figure out what they look like as a whole.
Eames rubs a hand over his head. His hair is short. Shorter than he's had it for a long time.
Not since that one time in Uzbekistan with Nash, Cobb and Arthur.
There are strands of The Pixies coming from a radio near his right ankle. The radio looks like something his nan had in her flat when he was in primary school. Eames was never into The Pixies. He gets to his feet and brushes sand from his hands.
He doesn't remember touching the sand.
He looks around him. The water is clear, pristine.
It should be blue. Blue water reflects the sky; it's all a trick of the light.
But this water is literally clear. Eames can see the bottom. There are no rocks, no shells, no seaweed, no fish.
It's like a pool. A pool that goes on forever into the horizon.
The sand is soft under Eames' feet. It shouldn't be. There are rocks in the sand. Shells. He pauses at the edge of the water and lets it lap at his toes. His skin is heated; the coolness of the water feels good. Perfect. It's the temperature he always hopes for at the beach where the water is always too cold. Even in Oahu.
There's sweat running down his spine, and his skin ripples when something firm and soft follows a particularly tenacious bead of sweat down the small of his back.
Long, slim fingers curl around Eames' left hip and he automatically looks towards the body pressing against his right side.
Arthur's nose is pink. So are his shoulders. He's wearing a gorgeous black fedora and a swimming costume with red fish on them. The pattern looks Aztec.
He offers Eames a green drink. The green is so bright it's verging on radioactive.
Eames looks down at the thumb rubbing circles along the tattoo on his hipbone and then he looks back at Arthur. "What day is it?"
Arthur's mouth quirks. "Monday."
"What did I have to eat for breakfast?"
"Same thing you always have: tea, toast and those nasty beans that make you pass gas."
"Pass gas. Such an elegant turn of phrase. The entire English Empire eats those 'nasty beans' as you call them."
"Oh, is that what happened to your empire?"
Eames snorts and studies Arthur's profile. "Touché."
Arthur's lips are pink, chapped. They're begging for Eames' attention, and who is he to turn down such a tempting proposal? He leans in and kisses the corner of Arthur's mouth and Arthur lets him. He doesn't move in, but he doesn't move away. It's really just a dry press of lips. Almost chaste.
Except for the way Arthur licks his lips after Eames pulls away.
Eames swallows. He can feel the sweat bonding them together.
His watch is ticking away against his left thigh. He didn't notice that before. He extracts it from pockets he didn't know existed and opens the face. It's rotating anticlockwise. Of course it is.
"Is this your dream or mine?" Arthur asks after Eames puts the watch away.
"You'd be wearing less if it were mine," Eames replies.
"Hmm." Arthur presses the sweaty, green cocktail against Eames' bare abdomen. It's cold. Shockingly so. "Do you want this or not?"
"Not," Eames says. He's not expecting it when the hand at his waist slides around to his spine and shoves him forward into the water.
He's falling.
Falling.
That's quite the kick.
He wakes up on the floor beside the hideous wicker lounger. The toes of a pair of brown Puma trainers are right by his nose. He cranes his head to the side, expecting Ariadne. Instead he's faced with Arthur in a t-shirt and jeans and holding a garment bag.
Eames frowns. "When did you put on clothing?"
Arthur blinks. "I don't even want to know."
Eames pushes himself to his feet, wipes the drool from his jaw. "That's not what you said five minutes ago."
Arthur turns away. "That was five minutes ago," he says, walking away with his garment bag slung over his shoulder.
Eames needs a drink.
He stands up, glances at Ariadne and Yusuf talking animatedly behind the barrier and heads for the mini-fridge in Cobb's office. Considering the warehouse has no walls and they're using filing cabinets and chalkboards as partitions, "office" is a very loosely defined term.
When Eames comes back with two mini bottles of the Skyy Vodka that they keep in the mini-fridge's freezer, Yusuf is sitting on a plastic lawn chair next to the wicker lounger.
He's making notes on a yellow pad of paper with great flourish. He looks up when Eames plonks down beside him.
"So, my friend," he says, "how do you feel?"
Eames rubs the back of his head. "How am I supposed to feel?"
"You did not achieve nirvana with this I take it?"
Eames smirks after he downs one tiny bottle of vodka. "Is that what was supposed to happen?"
Yusuf smiles ruefully. "No, but I thought I should check anyway."
Eames pats at the pockets of the leather motorcycle jacket he bought today on a whim. He reckoned it looked like something Arthur might like. The right hand pocket jangles busily. It's holding his watch, poker chip and the very first historical artifact he ever "liberated": a Spanish doubloon.
He takes the doubloon out and flips it between his fingers over and over again.
He can feel Yusuf watching him. "Are you experiencing any negative side effects?" Yusuf probes.
Eames' smile has too many teeth. "That depends: would you reckon Arthur is a side effect?"
"Ah," Yusuf says. "So the proximity compound does stimulate the dream center."
Eames stills the doubloon between his thumb and forefinger. "That was a proximity compound?"
Yusuf grins beatifically. "Surprise."
Eames shakes his head. "Does Arthur know about this?"
"Arthur is not you. Of course he knows, you can ask him yourself."
Eames finishes the other mini-vodka before he stands up. "That's not a bad idea."
Arthur is naked.
Well, not naked, but shirtless.
At least his back is exposed to Eames, which is what happens when you work in a warehouse with zero privacy
When Eames went in search of Arthur he had no idea he would find this. He would've looked much sooner.
Arthur is all lean, taut muscles and smooth skin. There is a scar though; it runs parallel to his spine. It's faded, old. Long. And then it's covered up by the shirt Arthur's pulling on.
Eames can't remember the last time he was so disappointed.
"Don't get dressed on my account," he says.
Arthur's head bows; his hands begin buttoning his shirt. "It's not on your account," he says. "I have a meeting after I'm done here."
"So you're not taking me home and ravishing me? I feel cheated."
By the time Arthur turns around all Eames can see is a tiny sliver of his navel.
And then that's gone too.
Arthur stares at him for several seconds, tucking in his shirt, straightening his collar, and then he releases the most enormous sigh. "Look," he begins.
Eames' right eye twitches. "I already have done," he says delightedly. "And I approve. I'd approve more if you were wearing less, I have to say."
"Eames, be serious."
"Oh, I don't think you want me to be serious."
"Maybe I do."
Eames raises an eyebrow. "Maybe you do," a beat. "Maybe you don't."
"Do you even know how to be serious?"
"You'd be surprised at what I know."
Arthur's mouth thins into a line as he fastens the cufflinks. "I don't doubt that."
"You should give me more credit." There's a sharp note at the end of that sentence that Eames wasn't expecting from himself. Sometimes, though, Arthur makes him dreadfully tired.
Eames studies Arthur intently. The flushed cheeks, the perfectly coiffed hair. There is nothing out of place about him. "Or maybe you don't want to give me credit," he decides. "Clearly it's easier for you to write me off. You certainly don't want to meet me halfway."
Arthur opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
Eames shakes his head. "All this because I don't fit your mould. Are you really so scared to try something new?"
"Why should I?" Arthur snaps. "Do you know what you want? Because I don't." Arthur yanks on his suit jacket angrily. "I don't fucking know what you want from me."
This time it's Eames who lets loose an enormous sigh.
"For someone so brilliant, you're terribly dense," he says with resignation.
"I am not!" Arthur retorts.
"Yes, you are."
They stand in the warehouse, staring at each other for several seconds, Arthur glowering and Eames utterly knackered from all of this. He slips his hand into his pocket and rubs the burnished metal of his totem.
"I was wrong," he says after some time. "You don't lack imagination: you lack faith."
He turns and walks out, deliberately not listening to Arthur's response.
Eames is sitting outside his flat in Brixton smoking a Marlboro Light and drinking a cup of peppermint tea. It's cold out. At least according to the numb feeling in his arse and his nose it's cold out. The sky is grey. It could be November or February. Or March or June.
He's never lived in Brixton.
He gave up smoking when he started running for a living.
He hates peppermint tea.
He's wearing a red-and-white plaid flannel shirt. He's never even owned a plaid flannel shirt. He wore one once, when he went fox hunting in the Lake District. Blencathra. Lovely place. Terrible activity. Eames prefers to hunt animals his own size; it's much more sporting.
"I'm off to the shops now, Jamie," his nan says, whacking him in the head with her enormous red patent-leather bag as she brushes by him on the steps. "Going to get some of that nice liver and onions you like for tea."
"Okay, Nan," he says automatically.
His nan's hair is platinum blonde and she's dressed like Lily Allen. Bless.
His nan's been dead six years and his first name's not Jamie.
He hasn't had an unaided dream in ages.
He watches his nan bundle herself into a neon green Daewoo and drive off down the street in reverse. She dings three cars. He just shakes his head and smiles. He stops smiling at least three seconds before he sees Arthur standing in the parking spot his nan just vacated.
Eames flicks away his cigarette.
And then gravity disappears and Eames is flying through the air. The blow he delivers to Arthur's jaw sends Arthur staggering back until he's supine in the middle of the street.
Eames advances again. He aims his foot for Arthur's ribs. Tries to stomp on his hand. But then his ankle is being grabbed and he's being spun and slammed against a very inconvenient silver Volvo.
All the breath is crushed out of his lungs, but you don't have to breathe in a dream.
In a dream the old rules don't apply.
Eames rolls away just as Arthur's fist hits the passenger window Eames is sprawled on.
The glass spiders, cracks; Eames elbows Arthur and hears something break. He turns around. There's blood on Arthur's face. Blood on his hands.
Arthur wipes his face and smiles.
Eames shakes his head. "We don't have to do this," he says, holding his hands out as they circle each other. Looking for holes. For gaps in their respective armour.
Looking for a way in.
Eames' hands are smeared red, too.
His nose feels disconnected from the rest of his face.
"Well, we have to do something." Arthur laughs. The laugh is wrong, twisted.
Wrung out and despairing.
Eames is not prepared for the roundhouse kick to the side of his head.
His ears are ringing, and he's lying on the ground on his side but he thinks Arthur says, "We can't go on like this."
He rolls away just as Arthur stomps the ground where his head was.
Eames vaults to his feet. He can never do that properly in reality. Of course in reality he doesn't run up the side of a car and kick Arthur's chest hard enough to hear the ribs crack.
Arthur flies back through the air and smacks into a lamppost.
He lands with a sickening thud on the kerb and his head lolls to the side precariously.
Eames takes a wary step towards him. "I don't want to hurt you," he says cautiously.
"I think it's too late for that," Arthur coughs. Blood's coming from his mouth. It makes Eames think of Saito -- but this is much worse.
Eames feels dizzy. He collapses a few feet from Arthur; his vision is incredibly blurry. "I want--" he begins and stops.
Arthur coughs again. "I know."
And then there's nothing.
He's awake.
He left his bedside lamp on. It's 11:14 in the morning.
Someone is knocking on the door.
Eames answers his door holding his watch.
Ariadne shields her eyes. "C'mon, Eames, have some modesty."
Eames smiles at her. "Modesty is overrated, darling."
"Well then, think of all the men who are going to compare unfavorably now that you've burned your naked image on my retinas."
He laughs and turns away to go put on something more accommodating.
He returns in a vest and jeans.
She's in his kitchen poking at his kettle and eating his McVities.
"A bit early for biscuits, isn't it?" he says.
She's turned on the kettle; very thoughtful.
When Ariadne smiles there's chocolate on her teeth. "It's always time for cookies."
"I could make you breakfast," he offers, opening his refrigerator. Instead of the normal toast and beans he pulls out bacon, eggs and milk.
"I already ate," she says dismissively.
"Already ate? It's barely morning."
Ariadne polishes off one digestive and grabs another. "It's almost noon, Eames."
"My point precisely," he says, putting a Tetley's bag in a chipped Arsenal mug. "Barely morning."
"I can't stay," she insists. "I just came by--"
"To eat all my biscuits."
Ariadne gives him an exasperated smile. "I just came by to tell you that you have to help him out."
Eames pauses in reaching for the sugar. "Help who out?"
She rolls her eyes. "Don't you play stupid, too."
"I'm not playing at anything."
Ariadne purses her lips.
Eames gazes back at her patiently and her face softens. "Okay," she concedes. "You're not playing, but he doesn't know that. He's repressed."
Eames makes a derisory noise. "Arthur is not repressed. A controlling, anal-retentive, deeply suspicious charming man who dresses exquisitely, yes. Repressed? No."
"Okay, so he's not repressed," a pause. "But he is cautious. Very cautious."
"Too cautious," Eames corrects as the kettle goes off.
"Not everybody can be like you."
"More unfortunate for them," he says, finally getting the sugar and making his tea.
"Eames." Ariadne's hand is light on his shoulder.
Eames frowns. "He's very high-maintenance, my Arthur," he complains.
Ariadne's smile is brilliant. "Yes, but he's still your Arthur."
It's raining in San Francisco. Eames should not be surprised.
Every time he visits the Bay Area it's either cold or raining or cold and raining; it like he's visiting a little part of England in the colonies.
The taxi from Oakland Airport drops him off on the corner of Broadway and Taylor in Russian Hill, and he stands on the kerb for quite some time, watching the windows of a corner third floor apartment.
There's movement. He can make out a blur bustling past curtains pulled to let in the grey morning.
A figure moving back and forth with purpose.
Always with purpose.
Eames is getting drenched.
He dashes across the road when the front door to 999 Broadway is opened by a lanky black girl pushing a bicycle.
"Thanks," he says, holding the door open to let her extract her bike before he dashes up three floors to Apartment Nine.
There's muffled music coming from the other side of the apartment's front door, and Eames knocks sharply. With resolve. With purpose.
He doesn't hear approaching footsteps, but he can see shadows playing underneath the crack of the front door and behind the peephole. He can just imagine Arthur's sigh, the debate about pretending not to be home.
"I know you're home," Eames informs the peeling paint on Arthur's front door. "Don't play silly buggers."
And then the door swings open. Arthur's wearing grey trousers and a white shirt with rolled up sleeves. There's a smudge of dirt on his cheek and he's holding a bottle of cleaning fluid. "Eames," he says dryly.
"Oh, darling, you cleaned," Eames mocks, deliberately brushing against Arthur as he steps inside a flat he's dreamed about countless times. The flat is just as orderly as Eames expected, just as ascetic. Everything has its right place. The red vase on the end table. The art books closed away under a glass-top coffee table. The walls are a bright white, the furniture chocolate-coloured leather and antique walnut.
There's an exquisite table in the dining room covered with books, magnifying glasses and blueprints.
The color in the rooms comes from the art on the walls. Sharp Japanese prints; Kandinsky next to Picasso. Basquiat. Kahlo. Banksy.
What really sets Arthur's flat apart is the bay widows. They're vast, all-encompassing. The view is amazing. It's like floating in the ether.
The Pixies' "Here Comes Your Man" blares from another room.
Eames soaks it all in.
This is Arthur.
"You're dripping all over my floor," Arthur says by way of greeting before setting the cleaning fluid on the sofa's end table.
Eames looks down at the puddle his clothes are leaving on Arthur's spotless wood floors. "I'm sorry, I'll try to do better in the future," he promises, and then he begins to strip.
The green tweed blazer lands with a "plop"; his favorite pink silk shirt a "plip"; his loafers thud when he kicks them off. He unfastens his belt, unbuttons his trousers and pushes them down to his ankles before stepping out of them altogether. His socks are last.
When he's done he's standing before Arthur in damp white briefs and not much else.
There's a draft coming from somewhere that makes his nipples stand at attention. Or it could just be the way Arthur's staring at him as though he just pulled a Tommy Gun out of thin air. "Better now?"
Arthur rubs his mouth. "Eames."
Eames cocks his head to the side. "Yes, Arthur?"
In three long strides Arthur's across the room and crowding Eames until he's forced to take one step back, and then another and then another. He hits something hard and unyielding. And dreadfully cold against his back.
They've finally hit the wall. It took fucking long enough.
"Why are you here?" Arthur's tone is quiet, but the set of his jaw is hard.
"To see you," Eames says without preamble.
Arthur shakes his head. "Why are you here?" he repeats.
"Because you promised me the world, used me up callously and never even left a tip. I hate it when that happens."
Arthur's hands bracket Eames shoulders. He glances down at the floor before looking back at Eames. "Why are you here?" he says again.
Arthur's tone is almost despairing. His voice cracks and Eames leans forward and presses his forehead against Arthur's. "Because if I left it up to you this would never happen," Eames says quietly. "Because the most fearless person I know shouldn't be afraid of me."
Arthur exhales softly, his eyes fluttering closed, and Eames closes the gap and kisses him.
In reality Arthur's lips are dry and smooth. In reality is mouth his thin, his tongue is wet and he's a terribly selfish kisser. He cups Eames' face and shoves him back against the wall and tries to devour Eames whole.
His tongue laps up every inch of Eames' control and obliterates it. Arthur licks and sucks. He wedges his leg between Eames' thighs and ruts against him until Eames is whimpering into Arthur's mouth and clawing at his clothes. Buttons clatter to the floor. Eames yanks at Arthur's belt in irritation. It's being obstreperous.
And instead of offering Eames the slightest hint of relief, Arthur's hands slide over Eames' exposed skin setting every inch on fire before he grabs two handfuls of Eames' arse and man-handles him, rutting him against Arthur's thigh even harder.
The wall is relentless against Eames' back. He can feel his skin being rubbed raw; he can only imagine what's happening to Arthur's knuckles, but it doesn't matter, because Arthur is mouthing at Eames' neck, biting him sharply and babbling the sort of filth that makes Eames writhe in his arms like he's been taking lessons from the ladies at Spearmint Rhino.
"Your mouth," Arthur murmurs. "Want to fuck your perfect mouth. God your mouth is obscene. Watching you lick your lips, watching you eat that stupid fucking hot dog."
Eames makes a strangled noise. Arthur carries on with his litany. "I want you to suck my cock, so I can come on your face. On that hideous tweed jacket. I want you in my bed, want to spread you wide and lick you open. Listen to you scream when I slide three -"
"Enough!" Eames says, shoving Arthur back. He's about two-fifths of a second from coming. Although, judging by the way he just came in his briefs, perhaps his estimate might've been off.
Arthur's eyes are huge, his mouth slick and swollen. Eames has ruined his shirt and Arthur's panting, color high in his cheeks.
Eames would happily be defiled now, and yet...
He takes a deep breath. "I shall forgive your slur against my favourite jacket, because I am expecting you to fuck my brains out rather spectacularly. So I think less clothing and more shagging is called for, don't you?"
This is probably why five minutes later Eames is on his hands and knees in Arthur's bed, the cheeks of his arse spread wide and Arthur licking him open like he would be happy to do it all day.
Eames would be happy to stay this way all day, as well.
His fingers are cramping as he yanks at the ridiculously expensive duvet cover - he would know Pratesi anywhere -- and he keeps yelling into his bicep. Twenty minutes ago he was freezing and wet, now, he's in danger of spontaneous combustion.
Arthur's bedroom also has enormous bay windows. The curtains are pulled all the way back and anybody with a view could be watching as Eames collapses down on one hand so he can fist his cock and try and fuck himself on Arthur's tongue.
"Fuck fuck fuck," he pants as Arthur spreads him wider -- too wide, too much -- spits and then licks more.
"Just like that," Arthur orders, and then there are two slick, cool - cold - fingers sliding inside Eames where before there was just wet heat.
Arthur's vicious; he opens Eames fast and hard and then slows down, scissoring his fingers until Eames is aching with the stretch. He whines pitifully. He's never really thought of himself as a greedy slut, but life is about evolution.
And the way Arthur's fucking Eames open and the way he's jerking his cock and begging for more, well, that's evolution. "Oh fucking hell," he groans, shuddering as he comes all over his hand and the duvet.
It's messy and soul-wrenching and Arthur curls over his back and kisses his shoulder. "Better now?" he mocks softly.
Eames hasn't believed in a higher being since he was eleven.
That orgasm, however, was definitely a spiritual experience.
"Shut up and fuck me," Eames mumbles blearily, post-orgasmic lassitude making it easy for Arthur to roll him onto his back.
It's red behind Eames' eyelids. Everything in his head is quiet. There's ringing in his ears, but he'd know the sound of a foil condom packet being opened anywhere. He can feel Arthur lifting his legs, stroking the inside of his right knee.
"Look at me."
Arthur's voice requires him to obey, and Eames opens his eyes. Arthur's kneeling over him, Eames' ankles on his shoulders, the head of his cock pressing against Eames' opening. Arthur thrusts in, fast and intractable, and Eames arches off the bed so hard he thinks his spine might snap.
"Jesus fucking Christ," he curses as Arthur grips his thighs and fucks him deep.
There's no slow acclimation, there's just this ruthless invasion of Arthur taking him over.
The slap of skin on skin, the way Arthur's nails are digging into the muscle of his legs, the relentlessness of his stare. This is what Eames came for. This and so much more.
Eames scratches at the duvet cover, at Arthur's forearms. More. Deeper. Harder.
Please.
Fucking god, Arthur, please.
Eames' cock is twitching against his stomach as though it hasn't just performed twice in under thirty minutes.
There's sweat beading on Arthur's face; it drips on Eames' chest, and then Arthur's shifting, moving. Eames wraps his legs around Arthur's waist to keep him close.
Arthur's mouth quirks slightly at this act of possessiveness, and when he shifts again his cock brushes against Eames' prostate. Eames moans low. "Like that?" Arthur asks.
Eames' laugh is more like a wheeze. "I have no complaints for the management at this time."
"Good to know." Arthur says. His eyes are wide, glassy. He rubs Eames' mouth with the tips of his fingers and Eames nips at his index finger.
Arthur shakes his head and smiles. It's gorgeous and open and free.
And then he pulls away and slams back into Eames hard enough that Eames' vision goes blurry. There's one thrust and then another, persistent, insistent. Arthur's cock hits Eames' prostate enough that Eames is in grave danger of screaming like a girl. Arthur's merciless. Harder, sharper, faster.
This is everything.
Arthur's presses his forehead to Eames' and breathes over him. There's not enough air for kissing, it's just panting against each other's mouths, Eames clawing at Arthur's back.
And then Arthur shouts and goes still for a moment before collapsing onto Eames. He's all sharp angles and long limbs. He shudders his way through aftershocks as Eames pets him.
After ward, Eames wanders around Arthur's flat, finding a towel to clean them up with, getting water from the refrigerator. Pausing to play with Arthur's iPod, which has moved on to Gnarls Barkley.
Maybe they are crazy. Probably.
When Eames comes back, Arthur's sprawled out on his stomach, his head pillowed on his forearm and the bed clothes pooled down by his feet. He looks utterly fucked out. "Someplace you need to be?"
Eames tosses the towel on the nightstand and sets the water next to it. "Yeah," he says, climbing directly into Arthur's space and forcing him to budge over. "I need to be here."
Arthur's mouth curls at the corners. "Okay."
Eames closes his eyes when an arm is slung across his waist. "Okay," he agrees.
-end-
Title taken from the combined brilliance of Mos Def and Talib Kweli, known once upon a time as Black Star, because it describes perfectly my feelings about this pairing. 'Definition' and Re: Definition look'em up. Embrace the awesome
Thanks to lazlet for Tom Hardy appreciation and shirt picking :)
The beach section was gifted unto me by this photo. Thank maurheti for sharing it. Also, thank her for her awesome beta duty and for the fact that when I run to her babbling about naked Eames, her only response is, "get to work!"
The Pixies shout out is for all my (500) Days of Summer people.