Inception - Bite Hard (2/11)

[osaki_nana_707]

Title: Bite Hard (part 2)
Author: osaki_nana_707
Word count: ~5,000
Pairings/Characters: ArthurxEames, Dom Cobb, Yusuf, mentions of Mal
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: language, age difference/underage, dub-con, currently un-betaed
Summary: AU. Sixteen year old Arthur wakes up in another man's apartment.



Part Two

"Where the hell have you been?"

Dominic Cobb was a senior, student council president, star on the basketball team, and one of Arthur's only friends. Dom was a beautiful youth with gold hair always falling out of its coif that his mother surely forced upon him, a mischievous little grin, and blue-green eyes like the ocean at a tropical island's edge. He had been mistaken as much younger than his eighteen years just like Arthur had on occasion, but Cobb didn't seem to have an awkward bone in his body. He exuded confidence.

Even now, he was grinning his slightly crooked, porcelain white teeth at him as if he knew where Arthur had been and what he had been up to.

"It's none of your business," Arthur said sullenly, pulling open his locker and tossing his books inside to switch them for the ones he needed for all two of his classes that he was going to manage to make it to. "If you must know, I was sick this morning."

Well, it wasn't a lie.

Dom laughed in that way he did when he had someone cornered and followed after Arthur, his lithe frame bouncing as he half-jogged. "Oh, really? Why do you smell like alcohol?"

Arthur grunted in response, trying to ignore him.

"Why'd you tell the teacher to fuck off yesterday? Why are you walking with a limp?" he continued, practically circling him like a vulture. "Don't make me go get Mal. You know you can't lie to Mal."

Arthur frowned because it was true. Mal was Cobb's girlfriend, and she had eyes so honest that he couldn't hold himself together when she was around. It was probably why Cobb liked her so much. She knew what he was really like underneath all the school fame and liked him much better for it.

"Okay…" Arthur sighed, slowing to a stop so Cobb would end his rotation around him. "Look, I kind of… went a little nuts yesterday. I'm okay now though. Just let it go, if you could? I kind of want to put it behind me."

Cobb's smile flickered and faded, and genuine concern appeared at the edges of his face. "What did you do? I mean, you really look bad… no offense."

"I'm fine," he assured, and he wasn't sure if he was lying or not. "Just forget about it."

"But… you have bruises on your collarbone, and you smell like tequila, and you're really pale and sick looking. Come on, Arthur, I won't tell anyone, except for maybe Mal, and you know she won't tell anyone."

"Let it go," Arthur said sternly.

Cobb looked unsatisfied, but he nodded anyway. "All right, whatever," he shrugged. "I'm here if you change your mind though."

"Thanks," Arthur replied, but he didn't really feel all that thankful.

Eames lifted his head from his sketchbook at the pounding on the door. He grumbled, shoving the book under his elbow and swung it open just a crack, leaving the chain on. "Yusuf," he greeted blandly.

"You ordered it," Yusuf replied, holding up the bag of food. "I could just take it and leave though."

Eames shut the door, took off the chain, and opened it again. "Come in."

Yusuf did, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it over the back of the couch. "Your fake names aren't as hilarious as you think they are, Craven Moorehead. Couldn't you just say Eames? I mean, what are you, six years old?"

"Six year olds don't crave any such thing, you sick bastard," Eames teased, taking the bag from Yusuf and setting the take-out containers on the table.

"Also, just because I live below you doesn't mean you can call in an order right before I get off of work so I can bring it to you. How do you even know my work schedule?"

"It's the same every week," Eames replied. "Don't blame me that your manager copy-pastes the schedule. Also, I'm flattered that you've accepted that you live below me. At least I get to be the man in our relationship.

"Oh, ha ha, bloody, ha."

Eames snagged a pair of cheap wooden chopsticks out from the bottom of the bag and snapped them apart. "I hope you put it on my tab."

"I did, but you'd damn well better pay it off at the end of the month."

"I will."

They ate together in silence for a few moments, before Yusuf slammed his chopsticks down and said, "Okay, what is wrong? You've got this… this look on your face. I don't like it."

Eames swallowed his bite of Lo Mein. "I always look like this. If my face isn't attractive to you, Yusuf, I can assure you I won't lose any sleep over it."

"That's bollocks, Eames. What's up with you? You seem… out of it. Have you been shooting up again?"

"I told you, Yusuf, I don't do that anymore, and I never will. I ought to pop you just for suggesting it. I'm just sleepy."

"Lying around doodling must really wear you out," Yusuf grumbled flatly, and before Eames could stop him, he snagged the sketchbook off of the tabletop that had been thrown there carelessly in lieu of Chinese take-out. "Have you even done any real artwork this month? How are you paying for rent?"

"Give it back!" Eames shouted, snatching for it, but Yusuf angled himself away from Eames's grasp, flipping through it. "Come on, Yusuf, you know how I hate it when people look at my sketchbook. Yusuf, please-"

"Oh, my, this is something… Actually, this is really good… Oh, hey, you've drawn him a few times, haven't you? I haven't seen you use those pastels in at least four months. This is nice."

"You think so?" Eames asked pathetically, still embarrassed.

"Actually, I do. It's the best stuff I've seen from you all year, and these are just doodles. You should have painted."

Eames didn't say anything, signaling to Yusuf that he actually had painted, so Yusuf extended his hand in a way that said well, let's see it.

"I don't see what difference it makes," Eames said idly as he got to his feet, padding across the floor and digging it out of its hiding place. "No one's ever going to see it but you and me. Nobody's going to want it. It's really not that good. I mean, it's all right but-"

Yusuf took the canvas from Eames, seemingly captivated by it. "This is excellent, Eames. Your use of light is perfect."

"It's not perfect, Yusuf. It was just a spur of the moment thing."

"Who is this?"

"Nobody special."

"Nobody special? Eames, you drew him over and over in your sketchbook, and you painted this yesterday. I'm assuming all those doodles you've done today are studies of him too. You've got ties and eyes all over that fucking thing. Seriously, who is it?"

Eames dug into his Chinese to avoid answering for a few moments, but when Yusuf didn't give up, he swallowed and said, "he's some guy I met at the club yesterday. We went home together. That's it."

"He looks pretty young."

"He has a baby face."

"You're not in love with him, are you?"

"What? No!" Eames exclaimed. "What could make you possibly think that?"

"Last time you drew someone so extensively, it was Roxanne. You were in love with her, weren't you?"

"She was my muse, and we did heroin together," Eames said flatly. "That wasn't love."

"So, you're not in love with her today, huh? I thought that's what being a muse was."

"Just because you fall in love with every muse you've ever claimed to have doesn't mean that it happens to me. He's beautiful. That's all there is to it."

Yusuf shrugged, setting the painting against the wall so that he could admire it. "I don't have muses. I studied to be a chemist. If you painted like that back and school, you wouldn't have been expelled."

"If they'd let me paint what I wanted, I would have painted like that," Eames replied around a mouthful of food.

Yusuf laughed. "So, are you going to see this lovely little muse again?"

Eames looked at the painting, and hated the little pang of longing in his chest. "Probably not."

"Shame. Your art isn't so shitty when you actually feel like painting."

"Piss off."

Arthur had to stay in detention after school because of how he'd treated the teacher and skipped class the day before, and she was breathing down his neck for the duration of it. He sat there, staring down into the book he was trying to read, focusing on letter after letter to avoid focusing on the pain in his ass.

Eames… He didn't know his first name. He didn't even know how old he was. It wasn't how he'd planned to give up his first kiss, to give up his virginity, not that those things were supposed to be planned, but…

He didn't regret it, and he couldn't help but feel like he should. His image of Eames in his mind was a surprisingly fond one. He remembered how his hand had gently pressed against the small of his back while he cleaned blood off of the inside of his legs and how his fingers had laced into his hair when he'd burst into tears before leaving his apartment. He could still taste the tequila and cigarettes and something unidentifiable but sweet on his tongue from when it had wrestled with Eames's, could still see the way his blue-gray eyes had stared into his.

He still remembered the burning fire that had settled in his belly upon sighting him the first time.

Arthur let out a shuddered breath, just as the bell rang, dismissing him from detention, and he walked home with his bag in front of his fly.

When he stepped inside, he found a note from his mother, claiming she'd gone out shopping and that he was grounded for not coming home last night. He rolled his eyes because it wasn't as if she could do something to him while she was out fucking around with her latest affair.

He dragged himself upstairs for a shower, stripping out of his smelly uniform. The hot water soothed his skin from the slight chill of the October air outside, but he couldn't completely relax because he couldn't stop thinking about Eames.

He kept remembering things that Eames had done, even how he'd nearly folded him in half, tearing him apart from the inside out, and it made him ache with arousal. He couldn't understand why it made him feel that way, why he was maddened by heat and suddenly having to jerk himself off in desperation until he was coming all over his hand in the shower, screaming because he was alone, and he realized it.

He felt alive.

Arthur stood under the spray, gasping for air, and he thought vaguely he might have liked to stay with Eames forever.

Arthur banished that thought as quickly as it came and focused on washing his hair and scrubbing his body until his skin was raw and red. The thought was a foolish, crazy one, and he had had his fun being foolish and crazy the day before. It was time to get back to reality, get back to routine.

…even if the idea of that was unbearable…

"Jesus, what's wrong with me?" he asked his reflection as he slid his pajama shirt around his shoulders. He pressed his fingertips to his own lips, remembering the tingling feeling that still distantly sat there, and sighed.

He tried to do his homework, but he just couldn't concentrate.

When he came downstairs to get something to eat, he discovered his mother was just stumbling inside, laughing while she chatted with someone on her cell phone. "I'll call you later. Okay, bye."

She turned on Arthur then, eyes still hidden by her massive sunglasses, waves of hair slightly askew. "So, you decided to come home today?" she asked, trying to sound annoyed, but he knew that she didn't really care.

"I…" Arthur started and then decided to lie, "I told you yesterday morning at breakfast that I was spending the night at a friend's house. Don't you remember?"

He knew she wouldn't because she never listened to him anyway.

"Oh," his mother said, lifting her sunglasses to the top of her head. "Oh, yeah, sorry, I forgot about that. All right then." She hummed as she ascended the stairs, tripping on the fourth one. "Hope you had fun!"

"I did," Arthur mumbled, cleared his throat in discomfiture even though he was alone, and went into the kitchen.

He looked around at the spotless appliances, always there for show, never put to use. It was such a shame, he thought, for anything to go through life without serving any sort of purpose, for sitting back and letting time just roll on by.

He ate burned chicken fried steak, runny macaroni and cheese, and overly crunchy bread. He didn't regret it.

Even after several bouts of stain remover, Eames couldn't completely get the blood out of his sheets. There was just the faintest twinge of pale brown still there, mostly hidden by the design, but Eames could still see it.

Still, he made up the bed because he couldn't afford to buy new sheets.

As he dropped the pillow over the top of the blankets, he said, "Arthur." He rolled the name around on his tongue, tasting it again.

It really wasn't so bad of a name. On a geek with glasses and acne, it would be embarrassing, but there was something surprisingly suitable when it came to the boy and that name. It just fit. He felt bad for teasing him about it.

Eames brushed his hand along the pillow, flattening the wrinkles from how it had been tossed, and he discovered a stray hair, too dark and too long to be his. He caught himself smiling a little fondly at it.

Fuck, he thought as he realized that he actually sort of missed the kid. "Fuck," he said aloud. "He is a kid. Fuck. I need to let this go."

He snagged his sketchbook up as he flopped down onto the bed, messing up the smoothing he'd just done, and opened it to the latest page. On it was a very rough sketch of Arthur's face, the one he'd seen that afternoon at the bar when he'd smiled, dimpling his cheeks in the most flattering way. He wondered how often Arthur smiled like that.

Eames exhaled through his nose and turned back a page to a sketch of him standing by the door, sobbing.

Poor thing, he thought, running a fingertip along the line of a tear.

He wondered what Arthur was doing at that moment.

"Oh, bugger," Eames groaned, tugging his pillow over his face, "get out of my head, you little wanker."

Arthur lay in bed, drenched in sweat, sighing shakily. He had dreamed of the afternoon before, of Eames fucking into him, grunting while Arthur sobbed beneath him. He had dreamed of it as if he was right back there, experiencing it again and woke up with a sticky mess in his pants.

"Damn it," he gasped, kicking off his clothes as he rolled out of bed and tossing them in the hamper. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist, hoping the thrumming of his heart beat would soon slow.

He shouldn't have been feeling that way, he knew. He shouldn't have been getting excited over all of that. It had hurt. It had hurt badly… but it wasn't necessarily the act at all; it was Eames.

It was Eames with his tattoos that Arthur had taken the time to memorize, the light stubble along his jaw, the heavy lips curving into a smirk.

Arthur grunted and touched himself, even though it was far too soon for him to give it another go. He wondered if anyone else felt this way after they had had sex the first time, if it was just something that came with not being a virgin anymore.

Whether it did or it didn't, he hoped it would stop soon because he could not keep living quite like this. He only had so many pairs of pants after all.

He was overcome then with dismay when he realized that he had absolutely no one he could talk to about it. He could have called Cobb, but he was too embarrassed to tell him what he'd done. He didn't know Cobb's stance on homosexuality. Talking to Mal would be even worse on the embarrassment scale because she had the tendency to make him feel guilty without saying anything. He knew she wouldn't approve of his actions. Talking to his mom? The idea itself was hilarious if not a bit depressing. His father?

As if.

Arthur pulled on another pair of pajama pants and curled up under the blankets, and he thought of Eames's eyes, flickering as he looked up at Arthur and down at his sketchbook.

"Hey…" he said, lifting his head up off of the pillow. "I never got my drawing."

He wouldn't pretend it wasn't a stupid excuse to see him again, but he still got dressed in a pair of skinny jeans, a gray t-shirt, and a red hooded sweatshirt, and caught the last bus into the city. He knew it was stupid and foolish, but apparently he hadn't gotten it out of his system yet. He convinced himself, sitting in that seat on the bus, that all he really needed was to see Eames one more time, and then he would be fine.

This would be the last time.

All he needed to do was see him one more time and he'd be over him.

He kept telling himself that all the way up the stairs.

He stopped himself with his fist hovering over the door. "What am I doing?" he whispered to himself, running a hand over his hair. "This is so dumb. I don't even… know this guy, and I shouldn't have even met him in the first place. I must be out of my fucking mind."

He looked back down the hallway where he'd come up, at the several flights of stairs, at the flickering florescent light.

"Damn it," he whispered and knocked.

He heard shuffling from inside, and his heart fluttered up into his throat. "Yusuf, s'that you? I told you to piss off. I'm not-" he opened the door with the chain still on and silenced immediately.

"H… Hello…" Arthur said awkwardly.

Eames's jaw went slack for a long, long minute. "What… What are you doing here?" he finally asked, breathless.

"Um-" Arthur yelped, shoulders stiffening, "I uh… I just… um…"

"I see," Eames said flatly and shut the door. Arthur thought for a moment that Eames was shutting him out, but then the door was opening all the way and Eames said, "Well, come in then. Don't just stand out there looking like an idiot."

Arthur trotted in nervously and waited until Eames had closed and locked the door to turn around and look at him. Instead, his eyes caught sight of Eames's latest painting leaned up against the wall.

"Oh, wow," he gasped, crouching down to look at it better. "Is this me?"

"Ah… yes," Eames said awkwardly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his sweat pants. "It's just a little something that I did while you were sleeping. Mind telling me what you're doing here at…" he checked his watch, "nine forty-five?"

Arthur rose to his full height and shifted from foot to foot. "I just…" he looked down at the floor, feeling the tips of his ears burn. "I realized that I gave you my virginity, and I don't even know anything about you… I just… wanted to see you again. I'm sorry. I could go if you-"

"I told you stop apologizing," Eames scolded. "It's all right. I was awake anyway."

Arthur wiped his mouth on his wrist, nodding. "I came to get my drawing too… at least, that was my excuse on the way over here."

Eames huffed, and smiled, gaze softening. "You are an idiot, aren't you?"

"Please don't be mad at me," Arthur said. "I just wanted to know more about you so I don't feel like… like I was just some one night stand."

Eames blinked once, and then a second time, and then he laughed. "Oh, darling, darling," he chuckled and grazed his hand across Arthur's jaw. "You shouldn't feel that way. I'm so sorry…"

"How old are you?" Arthur asked, leaning into his touch, eyes fluttering closed.

"Twenty-two."

"How long have you lived in the U.S.?"

"Since I was eighteen. I came here to go to school but flunked out in my first year."

Arthur's eyes opened then, and focus seemed to return to his gaze as he stared into Eames's eyes. "Can I ask you a personal question?"

"Of course."

Eames would have answered any question Arthur gave him because he just couldn't get over how pleased he was to see him again. He wasn't sure what it was that brought forth the affection except that maybe he just enjoyed feeling appreciated. Maybe it was just that as soon as he caught sight of Arthur, his hands were itching to create.

"When you… When you lost your virginity, did you… think about that person a lot after?"

Eames raised an eyebrow.

Arthur licked his lips. "You know… think… about them."

"Oh," Eames replied. "I don't know. I mean, that was a long time ago. I guess I did. Why?"

Arthur adjusted his shoulders, and his face was beat red as he admitted, "I can't… stop thinking about you. I hate to say this, but… when I'm with you, I just feel… alive… I don't have anyone I can talk to about this, so I guess it's just hard for me to get it out of my head."

Eames exhaled slowly, and his hand lingered on the curve of his neck. He could feel Arthur's pulse racing underneath the skin. "Oh, bugger," Eames said, and then he was kissing Arthur.

Arthur kissed back feverishly, fingers clutching into Eames's t-shirt, moaning inside Eames's mouth.

Not once did it come to mind that it was a mistake. All that mattered was that exact moment.

He didn't even notice until Eames groaned that he'd been grinding his hips against Eames, and he pulled back, nearly toppling over, horrified. "Oh, God, I… I'm so sorry. I know I shouldn't-I wasn't thinking! Eames, I-"

Eames pushed Arthur against the wall and silenced him by licking back into his mouth, and Arthur's eyes rolled back in his head. He whimpered against Eames's tongue, jeans becoming unbearably tight, and he started trembling from it.

Eames broke the kiss, hovering just inches away from Arthur's face, gasping. "What is it? What's wrong?" he asked, panting.

"Please touch me," Arthur begged, pressing his hips against Eames. "Please… I'm sober, and I promise I won't tell."

"I'll do you one better," Eames whispered, voice deep and rumbling through to Arthur's very core. He dropped to his knees, forgetting his morals and cares and fears and everything but Arthur. He had a hell of a time getting Arthur's jeans unbuttoned, and when he finally pulled them down to his knees, his prick sprang forward, already leaking pre-come.

"Please, please," Arthur pleaded.

Eames swallowed him straight to the hilt, and Arthur squeaked. Eames pulled back, laving around the head and swallowed him again, bobbing up and down. Arthur was making small noises that started to rise in volume, and his hands grasped against the wall for some kind of non-existent support. Eames had to hold onto his hips to keep him from bucking forward and choking him.

Arthur shouted out and then drew out Eames's name in a glorious whine. "Eames… Eames… I'm… going to… I'm ah…"

…and then he was coming harshly down Eames's throat in hot, wet spurts, crying out in surrender.

When Eames released him, Arthur crumpled to the floor, unable to hold himself up on his jellylike limbs.

Eames swallowed and leaned his forehead against Arthur's, breathing heavily. "How was that?" he asked, as if he needed to.

Arthur responded by kissing him again. "Oh my God," he mumbled as he pulled away. "Can you do that to me again, like, every day?"

Eames laughed. "Can you stand up now?"

"If you help me."

Arthur wrapped his arms around Eames's neck and let Eames pull him up. "Go sit," Eames said, pointing at the kitchen table. "I've just got to change my trousers."

Arthur blinked lazily and did what Eames asked after pulling his jeans back up. He stared at Eames's painting while Eames dropped his soiled clothes to the floor and slipped on a clean pair of boxer shorts.

"So," Eames said as he returned, digging a bottle of water out of the fridge and downing a large gulp of it before continuing, "I'm assuming that's not what you expected to happen."

"I can't help it," Arthur said almost drunkenly. "The moment I saw you I was so fucking turned on I thought I was going to die."

"You are a crazy person," Eames said, handing over the bottle so Arthur could drink. He watched Arthur's Adam's apple bob when he swallowed. "You were that attracted to me?"

"I'd never seen anybody like you before," Arthur admitted. "I don't know if I ever will."

"Who me? I'm a dime a dozen. I'm nothing special at all."

"I don't believe that," Arthur said, leaning forward on the table, and Eames's expression was unreadable. "I don't believe that you're nothing special. I know that's not true. A nobody who's not special couldn't paint something like that." He pointed at the painting. "I'm the average person here. I don't have any redeeming qualities. I can't even cook."

Eames dug a cigarette out of the pack on the table and lit it with the Zippo next to it. "You flatter me. I'm not that great a painter. Art like that only springs forth from something beautiful."

Arthur blushed, and Eames took a mental snapshot of the image to draw later. "My inspiration goes crazy when you're around," Eames admitted.

Arthur pulled a cigarette out of the pack and lit it off of Eames's. He didn't cough this time. "You're lying."

"I'm serious."

Eames fetched his sketchbook and showed Arthur the sketches of him, and Arthur stared, enamored by each one. "Wow…" he whispered.

Eames leaned over Arthur's shoulder, breath on the shell of his ear, and pointed to each mistake. "They're all right. With you here now, I realize that things aren't all quite right. Your eyes are a bit closer together- I just can't seem to get them right, and this freckle's a bit further down your neck. You have lovely hands though. I think I at least got those right."

Arthur grinned, charmed, and Eames fought back the urge to sigh dreamily. Arthur had an amazing smile, and that was all it was, he reminded himself.

"Will you be my model, Arthur?" Eames asked then, trailing feather light kisses down his jaw and neck, Arthur shivering at the contact. "You can come here after school on Wednesdays and Thursdays, and I'll draw you beautiful pictures."

Arthur sighed as Eames's fingers traced along his ribs. "Okay…"

"I'd say you could come every day, but I work late every other day of the week."

"I'll come…" Arthur breathed.

"I know you will… but I do hope you'll make the trip to my flat as well."

Arthur laughed, and Eames was entranced by his dimples and his teeth and the way little wrinkles appeared at the edges of his eyes.

"Come on, now," Eames said. "I suppose I should drive you home."

Oh, jeez, this is going to be something massive and long isn't it...

Nana, you should be doing your homework right now