Imaginary, Part II
Eames is too old for this shit. He’s also pretty sure he’s the wrong sex, and that to take himself seriously right now he needs someone to tell him his butt doesn’t look fat in these jeans. It is a sad and sorry state of affairs when there is more dignity in being a junior high girl than being in his current predicament.
It’s just … a crush. He thought he was supposed to have got over that kind of thing once he realized that oh yes, sex is a viable option.
Then there’s the small but significant fact that his crush is imaginary. And a boy.
It had never occurred to Eames that he might be into blokes. Sure he’d noticed that Stephen from his class was kind of fit, and Ozzy had his father’s intense features which, let’s face it, would make anyone a little hot under the collar. It’s not like he’s blind. But everyone notices that kind of thing, there’s no reason to read any deeper meaning into it.
Unless, of course, you find you’ve spent half the class dreaming about the fit of Arthur’s waistcoat and that particular gap of skin between his cufflinks, shifting slightly in your seat and wishing you had a pillow to cover your crotch with.
But now that he’s open to it, he has to admit that there are certain advantages to this whole fancying blokes business. Like mutual blowjobs in the custodial closet, for example (his life is such a cliché, really). He finds that he enjoys giving head almost more that getting it, loves the way all the messages his body sends him - knees hurt, too cramped, no air to breathe in here - narrow down to that one inescapable fact, that there is something in his mouth. A cock, in his mouth.
It’s rather brilliant, actually. He doesn’t know why he didn’t start ages ago.
He hasn’t been dreaming of Arthur lately. He can’t understand why, because when he’s awake his brain seems determined to do nothing but preoccupy him with fantasies, the more embarrassing the better. It’s one thing, Eames reflects, to have an imaginary friend. Having an imaginary boyfriend is just pathetic. That doesn’t seem to stop his id from spinning The Story of Arthur and Eames’ One True Love, And Then They Fucked a Lot on constant replay. If they weren’t making themselves so painfully obvious, Eames would check his dangly bits to make sure he hasn’t changed into a giant fucking girl while he wasn’t looking. He winds up checking quite a bit anyway. As it were.
But if Eames has been dreaming, he can’t remember. He knows, intellectually, that most people don’t, but Eames has always been a vivid dreamer and he can’t see why his fantasy life can’t extend to la-la land now of all times. In a secret, shameful corner of his mind (and yes, he does have some shame, thank you very much, he just usually chooses not to act on it), he’s willing to admit that the thought of a rendezvous with Arthur is making him nervous. Or - well, that’s probably what that fluttering feeling in his stomach is. Nervous or not, though, this is the longest Eames has gone without seeing Arthur and he’s starting to miss him.
Such a fucking girl.
And then Eames goes to bed one night and suddenly he’s there. If Arthur weren’t, he wouldn’t know it was a dream because they’re in his bedroom and it looks just the way it did when he went to sleep. Then of course there’s that thing where he sees Arthur and his prick tells him he wants to be naked right now and Eames screams back at it that no, he really, really doesn’t, and for one terrifying moment he’s not sure whether he’s wearing clothes or not. Then he relaxes against the headboard, suave in a dark suit and tie and hoping like hell Arthur hadn’t noticed. That was kind of a big fucking clue, too.
Arthur gives the room a cursory once-over, like someone being shown a National Geographic article where alright, the pictures were kind of pretty but that still didn’t mean he was going to summon up a lot of interest for the mating habits of komodo lizards. Eames clears his throat and tries not to look at the billboard over his desk, because he’s pinned a number of his most impressive sketches there, and he wants to show off, and he knows if he did Arthur would only raise one perfect, amused eyebrow, like a parent being shown their child’s first finger painting, and possibly even say something like, “that’s nice, Peter.” Eames’ ego would never recover.
“So,” he says, going for breezy and landing at awkward, “Long time no see.”
“Is it?” Arthur asks, still more interested in the tapestry of posters on his wall than him.
“You wound me, darling.” There it is, that edge of teasing flippancy that cancels the physics of conversation, rends words weighted with a world of meaning no heavier than he wants them to be - and Eames always wants them light. He thinks of it as his lying voice, although Eames never lies. Lies are messy, leave them alone long enough and eventually they’ll multiply like bunnies on Viagra and trip you up when you can least afford it. But no one takes the voice seriously, so he calls it his lying voice and lets his audience fill in the blanks.
He’s never had to use the lying voice with Arthur before.
“You don’t get hurt as easy as that,” Arthur retorts, and Eames opens his mouth to let his lying voice plop out of it like a pebble. But his mouth is empty and Eames finds, suddenly, that Arthur is right. His skin is thicker than that, and although this is Arthur, maybe because this is Arthur, he knows he wasn’t meant any harm. Arthur only ever uses his lying voice.
There’s a moment, maybe even a Moment that goes by before Eames clears his throat, cocks a grin and says, “So. Fight?”
Arthur raises an eyebrow, tilts his hips in a delicious imitation of Eames and says, “I thought you’d never ask.”
“That’s because,” Eames returns, deadpan, “I never do.” And he tackles Arthur into the bed.
In retrospect, maybe not the best idea he’s ever had in his life because shit, Arthur is still only - what? Fourteen, fifteen? Young enough for it to matter, anyhow, and while Eames himself had not exactly been a blushing rose at that age there’s no denying the age gap and Eames’ body is entirely too on board with the program. He’s about to pull back, apologize, but he forgets that Arthur’s been fighting him since before he could fully form sentences, that no one knows better than Arthur how to beat him in a fight.
“Well that was easy,” Arthur says from his position above him about thirty seconds later. He sounds disappointed. His legs are twined around Eames’ in ways that only circus performers and porn stars and other disgustingly flexible people should be able to achieve, and Eames struggles ineffectually for a second before laying back, panting, and focusing on the much more pressing issue, which is that Arthurs belly is right on Eames’ crotch and somehow he doesn’t think his bellybutton is going to be a big enough hole for the stiffy Eames is starting to sport.
“Is something wrong?” Arthur asks, shifting forward and providing friction in places that, really Eames would appreciate either 100% audience participation or none at all, this half-and-half business is just not on. “Did I hurt you?” he says, breath hot on Eames’ chin, dishevelled hair brushing against his nose and mouth. Oh god, Eames thinks, kill me now.
“Well, sweetheart, if you’d maybe get off …“ What an unfortunate choice of words.
Arthur blinks with those stupid, insufferable beautiful eyes and grinds down one last, agonizing time as he gets up. “Oh. Right. Sorry.”
Oh. Right. Sorry. Eames parrots sarcastically in his mind and tries not to cry, or to grab Arthur and bite at his adam’s apple pressed as it is so tantalizingly against the perfect V of his half-Windsor, or to cum really hard in his pants like some kind of fucking pre-adolescent.
“What’s wrong?” Arthur’s looking at him curiously, head tilted to the side. Jesus Christ, what does he think is wrong? Arthur’s a teenager, not a toddler, he should recognize the symptoms of someone combating, say, a giant fucking hard-on. “Peter?” Arthur says again, and fuck if he doesn’t sound actually worried, reaching out a hand like he wants to check Eames’ temperature.
Eames growls. Either Arthur’s an idiot or a huge fucking tease, and either way he needs to be taught a lesson, and age difference be damned. Eames is human, not a fucking saint. So he grabs Arthur’s outstretched arm, jerks him to the bed again, and pulls him into a kiss.
Arthur’s mouth is already open - from shock, whatever - so it’s a simple matter to push his tongue past his lips. Eames wouldn’t put it past Arthur to bite his tongue, the bitchy little minx, but the moment for action passes and Eames licks the back of Arthur’s teeth, gratified, and Arthur makes a little hitching noise. Possibly the angel chorus that starts up at that is all in his head, although in a dream who’s to say? The point is that Arthur’s tongue rubs against his, if on purpose or by accident he’s not sure, and Eames awards his participation by lapping at the roof of his mouth, changing the angle and rubbing their wet lips together.
Eames must have been really, really good in a past life. The kiss would be perfect (as he has a feeling any kiss with Arthur must be) were it not for the fact that his heart is causing damage to his ribcage at the moment, and Eames has a feeling the time for plausible deniability is over and it looks like he has no choice but to admit that he is head over heels.
Then Arthur pulls away. “Wha-“ Eames has time to begin, and time to catch one glimpse of Arthur’s flushed face, his wide eyes -
And then he’s awake.
This is how teenage sex fantasies are supposed to work, he tells himself furiously that next morning. He’s not calling it a wet dream, not if you pay him with the motherfucking Hope Diamond. You have them one night, pretend you didn’t in the day, and then next night you get off again. There’s absolutely no need to feel so - so - bereft, like he was hoping for a post-coital cuddle or something. Which is completely ridiculous considering they hadn’t even got around to the coitus. No, all they’d done was share one (and you can bet your ass he knows what finger he’s counting that on) admittedly very hot kiss.
It’s just. Arthur’s expression. He’d looked not just panicked but absolutely wrecked. Eames supposes his ego ought to be wounded because he’s amazing in the sack and he knows it, but it’s a bit hard to pull off righteous indignation when really what he wants to do curl a hand in the perfect hairs at the nape of Arthur’s neck and press his head against his collar until everything’s all right again.
That’s it. Eames is taking to the wilds and writing romance novels for a living. Possibly after getting his head checked. With a brick.
But once again when he falls asleep he wakes up with no memories of dreams. And it goes on for months.
Then years.
He stops dreaming altogether, and he never sees Arthur again.
And that is the very worst part.
( part 3)