FINE.
Here, have some paragraphs. Really, just take them, I don't want them. (eta: okay, it's not that I don't want them, I DO, it's just they keep showing up. And I don't--. I can't--. FEELINGS.)
"Oh, fuck, oh--" Arthur says, resting his forehead against Eames’ shoulder, gasping. Eames twists impatiently against him, reaching back, and Arthur mumbles, "sorry, sorry, baby, sorry--" and starts fucking into him again. It’s late; they’ve been at it a while. After, he doesn’t remember that he said it.
Eames calls him Arthur. Or, says "hey, you, come here--" and grins when Arthur kneels up, wiping come off his face with the back of his hand before sliding up into Eames' lap. Says, "Arthur, Arthur," when they’re fucking. On the job he might say "Look the plans over as much as you like, Dear Heart, I think you’ll find they’re flawless," calls Arthur "Lamb" or "Schatzi" or "Precious" and Arthur answers to all of them, distracted. When it’s Eames’ turn to pick up the coffee he scrawls everyone’s names on top and Cobb hands the one that says "Buttercup" across to Arthur and goes back to work without even a raised eyebrow. In bed, Eames says "Arthur," and nothing else.
"Oh hon," Arthur, who spent five summers in Baltimore, says, when they finally get Eames’ blood-crusted shirt peeled up off the long, ugly wound on his side where he hit the ground. Eames is gritting his teeth, pressing his cheek against the cool porcelain of the bathroom sink to keep from puking. "I mean. You’re an idiot. Stay here and I’ll get the kit."
"Peaches," Eames will say, stuck in a van doing surveillance for six hours with Yusuf and some lousy takeaway. “Kitten, do you want the last of the Lo Mein?"
"It’s yours,” Arthur says, gnawing on his thumbnail, obviously deeply absorbed in a garage door that’s been shut for the last three and a half hours.
"Dumpling?" Eames says, mouth full.
"Really, it’s fine," Arthur says.
"I meant--do you want the last dumpling," Eames says, after a moment.
"Oh," Arthur says. "Um. Yeah, all right," he says, reaching for it.
"I’m gonna make love to you," Arthur says once. He’s not even drunk. Eames has a little hearing loss in his left ear; too many rock concerts as a kid and then explosions, later, but he’s pretty sure Arthur also says "sugar," just the one time, when they’re kissing in the back of a cab, Arthur’s fingers in his hair, on his face, soft.
"Oh, fuck, oh--" Arthur says, resting his forehead against Eames’ shoulder, gasping. Eames twists impatiently against him, reaching back, and Arthur mumbles, "sorry, sorry, baby, sorry--" and starts fucking into him again. It’s late; they’ve been at it a while. After, he doesn’t remember that he said it.
Eames calls him Arthur. Or, says "hey, you, come here--" and grins when Arthur kneels up, wiping come off his face with the back of his hand before sliding up into Eames' lap. Says, "Arthur, Arthur," when they’re fucking. On the job he might say "Look the plans over as much as you like, Dear Heart, I think you’ll find they’re flawless," calls Arthur "Lamb" or "Schatzi" or "Precious" and Arthur answers to all of them, distracted. When it’s Eames’ turn to pick up the coffee he scrawls everyone’s names on top and Cobb hands the one that says "Buttercup" across to Arthur and goes back to work without even a raised eyebrow. In bed, Eames says "Arthur," and nothing else.
"Oh hon," Arthur, who spent five summers in Baltimore, says, when they finally get Eames’ blood-crusted shirt peeled up off the long, ugly wound on his side where he hit the ground. Eames is gritting his teeth, pressing his cheek against the cool porcelain of the bathroom sink to keep from puking. "I mean. You’re an idiot. Stay here and I’ll get the kit."
"Peaches," Eames will say, stuck in a van doing surveillance for six hours with Yusuf and some lousy takeaway. “Kitten, do you want the last of the Lo Mein?"
"It’s yours,” Arthur says, gnawing on his thumbnail, obviously deeply absorbed in a garage door that’s been shut for the last three and a half hours.
"Dumpling?" Eames says, mouth full.
"Really, it’s fine," Arthur says.
"I meant--do you want the last dumpling," Eames says, after a moment.
"Oh," Arthur says. "Um. Yeah, all right," he says, reaching for it.
"I’m gonna make love to you," Arthur says once. He’s not even drunk. Eames has a little hearing loss in his left ear; too many rock concerts as a kid and then explosions, later, but he’s pretty sure Arthur also says "sugar," just the one time, when they’re kissing in the back of a cab, Arthur’s fingers in his hair, on his face, soft.